it seemed to be just another night at the club.
walters was telling one of his rather lengthy and not particularly humorous tales about the gold fields in patagonia, when an event occurred that threatened to shake the club to its venerable foundations.
“good god!” martinbark suddenly exclaimed. “ must we hear this foolish story again! it was boring the first time, and has not improved with endless retellings!”
silence fell over the room. the tiniest cracklings of embers could be heard in the less than roaring fire.
those members who had been dozing or slumbering peacefully in their chairs awoke suddenly, alert to a sudden unfathomable change in the air, as a dog sleeping in the wilderness might, at the sudden approach of a great beast or monster.
one member of the club had actually called out another for being a bore! had actually said that a fellow member’s story was boring!
it just was not done, could not be done. of course it was understood, and all very well, for one chap to simply not pay attention to another’s tale, or to doze off, or go completely to sleep. after all, the chairs are there for people to sleep in.
but to actually say - to actually utter the words “bore” or “boring” - why, what next? to actually say what pops into one’s head unbidden - like a child , or a savage…? and what next, after that?
and besides all that, it just wasn’t decent, was it?
the painful silence built up like the pressure in a diving bell desperately fighting to the surface (as we have been told so often by costermain’s stories of diving for pearls in the south seas)…
finally chestnutt, the senior member present. spoke up.
“this won’t do, martinbark,” he managed to stammer. “this won’t do at all.”
walthers managed to stand up. “all these years,” he spoke in a sad, dignified, voice, “ i thought i was welcome here, welcome among a group of good fellows. it appears that i was mistaken. in that case -”
“none of that! none of that!” a couple of members piped up at once.
now martinbark stood up, with something of an ill grace, and cleared his throat. “i realize that i am at fault here,” he intoned. “and that my crime can never be expiated. therefore i resign from the club, effective immediately.”
no one spoke.
“or as soon as i can collect my belongings,” martinbark added.
although no one said so out loud, they all knew that martinbark had long been a permanent resident at the club, and hardly ever stepped out of doors.
“but where will you go?” little percival cried, with a trace of something like pity in his voice. “what will you do?’
“oh, i shall find something,” martinbark said. “perhaps i shall join a missionary society, and convert the heathen. or be taken up by a red-cheeked floozy, and dragged to my doom. i mean, it’s all the same in the end, isn’t it?”
with that, martinbark headed to his room to pack his meager belongings.
walters and chestnutt sank back in their chairs.
“it might be best,” chestnutt said after a pause, “ if this sorry affair were never spoken of again.”
“hear, hear!” a few members murmured.
“ there may be questions from other members as to where martinbark has gone,” said phillipson. “and of course the secretary will have to be notified.”
“true enough,” chestnutt conceded. “but after that…”. he looked around, as if challenging contradiction.
none came.
“we should get davis in here, to build up the fire a bit,” morris suggested. “there seems to be a bit of a chill.”
outwardly, everything is normal at the club. martinbark is never spoken of. walters continues to tell his stories of the patagonia gold fields, with even more detail and longer pauses for dramatic effect than before.
it would seem that some things may be too sturdy to be truly shaken, let alone to crumble or fall.
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