The Midnight Club is the house of peace and harmony. It is the place where actors of rival companies meet and pass each other judicious compliments; it is the place where reporters on rival papers bury their hammers and forget to refer with proper pride to their past scoops; it is the neutral ground where all good men are good friends. There is a rule which provides that the man who starts any unpleasantness loses ten numbers and must buy the next two rounds, but this rule has never been enforced, because it has never been broken.
Mr. Blackwood, of the Belasco, dropped in the other night just in time to hear Thomas Oberle close a learned dissertation on mind reading, thought transference and other occult subjects.
"And that's why I know there's no fake about it," said Thomas, absent-mindedly pouring half a bottle of tomato catsup on the white cat's back. The outraged feline immediately leaped into MacVicars' lap and shook himself violently, whereat the Irish giant turned a back flip in a vain endeavor to save his new serge suit. A new suit is no joke with Mr. McVicars, for the tailors measure him twice and charge him accordingly.
