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The evidences that Varley intended to make a stay of some length stirred Sam to his duties as unofficial head of the club. Somehow, the rôle of spokesman seemed to fall to him, in times of emergency, by a sort of common consent.

“Er—er—why, how do you do?” he stammered. “Won’t you take a seat?”

Varley shook his head. He was still smiling in his friendly fashion.

“Why, no; I’d rather look about a bit, if I might,” said he. “I’d heard so much, one way or another, about this den of yours, that I made up my mind I’d make a call. Thought, too, I’d find you all in about this time of day. Say, you’ve got a cracking good hang-out! Said you fixed it yourselves, didn’t you?”

Then up spoke the Shark, testily: “Nobody said that.”

“But it’s the fact, all the same,” Sam hastened to remark. “Yes; what’s here we did, or made, or whatever you choose to call it.”

“Smooth work, too,” said Varley quickly. “Garage once, wasn’t it?”

Inasmuch as the club-house was the property of Step’s father, Step felt called upon to make reply.