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Trojan Walker had the gift of mimicry, and Herman Boyd liked to devise little dramatic scenes. Sam walked in upon the assembled club, just in time to behold the Trojan, with a shawl wrapped about him to increase his resemblance to Mrs. Grant, presenting a lump of dough on a toy pie-plate to Herman, to the extreme delectation of the spectators. Step and Poke were roaring with laughter, and even the solemn Shark was chuckling.

“Heroic youth, accept this slight trifle as a testimonial of my deep and undying gratitude and affection,” the Trojan was reciting. “You risked your life to save me, and now you can risk it again. This is no common pie. It’s a—a—a——”

There the Trojan hesitated, stammered, paused. He had caught sight of Sam, standing in the doorway; and something in the other’s face warned him that he was on dangerous ground.

Oddly enough, it was the Shark who broke the silence, which for a moment held the group.

“Come in and shut the door, Sam,” he said curtly. “You’re making a draught.”