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                          TALES OF
                      THE WONDER CLUB. BY
                         DRYASDUST


                        [Decoration]


                       ILLUSTRATED BY
                JOHN JELLICOE AND VAL PRINCE,
                AFTER DESIGNS BY THE AUTHOR. HARRISON & SONS, 59, PALL MALL,
 _Booksellers to the Queen and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales._

                   _All rights reserved._




            LONDON:
 PRINTED BY A. HUDSON AND CO.,
   16, WANDSWORTH ROAD, S.W. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE

 FRONTISPIECE                --

 TITLE PAGE                  --

 THE PHANTOM FLEA            17

 THE SPIRIT LOVERS           57

 THE GLACIER KING           118

 THE MERMAID                129

 THE PIGMY QUEEN            202

 THE SPIRIT LEG             314

 LOST IN THE CATACOMBS      373




INTRODUCTION. A PEEP AT THE WONDER CLUB. Towards the close of the last century there stood in one of the Midland
counties of England, in the centre of two cross-roads, a venerable
hostelry, built in the reign of Elizabeth, and known by the sign of "Ye
Headless Lady." Its ancient gables were shaded by luxuriant elms and
beech trees. The woodwork of the building and its weather-stained walls
of brick were partially overgrown with thick ivy, while its high,
dingy-red roof was tinted with every variety of lichen. The windows were
narrow, and the framework heavy, as is usual in houses of that period. The host of this establishment, one Jack Hearty, was one of the old
school of landlords--robust, jovial, and never above his business. His
fathers had owned the inn before him, and "he never wished to be a
better man than his father, nor a worse either, for the matter of that,"
as he would say. All day long, when not engaged with his customers
indoors, he was to be seen at the door of his inn, with his apron girt
around him, and a "yard of clay" at his lips, straining his eyes down
the long cross-roads for the first glimpse of a customer. Often after gazing long and intently into the distance he would turn
back with a sigh, knock the ashes from his pipe, refill it, take a deep
draught of his own home-brewed ale, then, if none of his customers
required anything, and the affairs of his household permitted it, he
would sally out again. This time, perhaps, his eyes would be greeted by
the sight of a solitary wayfarer, or, better still, the stage-coach. Then it was that the honest landlord's face would brighten up, as it was
certain to bring him some of the "big-wigs" from town. He would rub his
hands and chuckle, while Dame Hearty would begin to bustle about to
welcome the fresh arrivals. It was not often, however, that the
"Headless Lady" was entirely deserted. A small clique or brotherhood, known as "The Wonder Club," had been
nightly in the habit of assembling here for years, and this served to
bring grist to the mill. Some of the eminent men from the neighbouring
village, among whom were the doctor, the lawyer, an antiquary, an
analytical chemist, and others, had formed among themselves a club,
which was to consist only of very choice spirits, like themselves, and
if any guest were introduced among them, it was only to be with a letter
of introduction and the full consent of all parties. By these strict
rules they hoped to keep the club select. A room at the inn was set
apart for them, into which no one not belonging to the club ever
presumed to enter, unless it was the landlord, who would be called every
now and then to replenish the bowl, and whom sometimes the guests of
the club would "draw out," as it was whispered in the village that the
landlord of the "Headless Lady" knew a rare lot of stories, he did; also
how to tell 'em, too, my word! but these he generally reserved for his
more intimate customers. One strict law of the club that we have not yet
mentioned was that no guest invited was to be a "business man." Should a
commercial traveller ever have the hardihood to enter the sacred
precincts of the club, he was assailed with a battery of glances from
the members that must have completely cowed him, unless he were a man of
more than usual strength of nerve; but as this rarely happened, all such
outward manifestations of contempt were kept within due bounds. Business
was, of course, tabooed; even politics were only admitted on sufferance
and by a special permission of the chairman. There was one evening in
the year, however, when the chairman never granted any such permission,
and that was on the anniversary of the founding of the club. On this
evening such subjects as business and politics would have been cried
down, and the daring introducer of the obnoxious themes would have been
condemned to drink a cup of cold water on his bended knees by way of
expiating his offence. No subjects of public or private interest were
tolerated on this evening, or, indeed, on any other. The chief delight
of this club was to tell or to listen to stories which were all more or
less of the marvellous class, and which each took it by turn to relate
to the rest, the strictest silence and order being preserved during the
recital. The evening that we are about to describe to the reader was the
tenth anniversary of the founding of the club. This was a very grand
event. For any one of its members or guests, whether married or single,
to have been absent, on this occasion would have been little less than
an insult to the rest. Let us try to give our readers a glimpse of the
club room and its guests on this memorable evening. Imagine, then, a large room with low ceiling and walls of dark oak
panel, a large old-fashioned fireplace with dogs, and a Yule log blazing
on the hearth. The curtains are old and embroidered, and closely drawn. The room is well lighted, and in the middle is a long table, at which,
through a cloud of tobacco smoke, a party of nine--all lords of the
creation--may be discovered. A bowl of punch is in the centre of the
table, at which every now and then each guest replenishes his glass. Mr.
Oldstone, the antiquary, has been elected chairman. Watch with what
dignity he fills his post of honour. Look! he rises and thumps the
table. He is going to make a speech. The strictest silence reigns; you
might hear a pin drop. "Gentlemen," began the worthy chairman, after one or two preliminary
"hems," "it is with feelings of mixed pride and pleasure that I feel
myself called upon to-night to preside at this most honourable meeting." (Hear, hear!) The chairman resumed, "This is the tenth anniversary of
our club of choice spirits (cheers), and so shamefully nicknamed by our
enemies 'The Morbid Club.' (Groans.)