Braider was in the Fourth, and Dick knew of him as a racketty, roystering sort of fellow, very popular with his own set--and thought something of by the Den, on account of some recent offences against monitorial authority.
"I say," said he to Dick, confidentially, "what do you say to belonging to our Club ?" "What Club ?" asked Dick, scenting some new distinction, and getting light-headed in consequence.
"You'll promise not to go telling everybody," said Braider.

"We're called the 'Sociables,' It's a jolly enough lot.

Only twenty of us, and we have suppers and concerts once a week.

The thing is, it's _awfully_ select, and a job to get into it.

But your name was mentioned the other day, and I fancy you'd get in." "I suppose Georgie Heathcote isn't in it ?" said Dick.
"Rather not!" said the other, mistaking his meaning; "he'd have no chance." "He's not a bad fellow," said Dick.