The Sporting Club by Thomas McGuane Read Free Book Online Page B

century, which I take issue with. This was written by a local boy who resented the club and who was not a member. The name of his account was Hellfire in the Woods and tried to prove that the club was founded for disreputable reasons. I take issue, Quinn.”
    â€œNice to see you, Bob.”
    â€œAs well you should,” said Quinn. He could see Stanton craning his neck. He was after Quinn.
    â€œAnd I put it right on the line. Everybody asks me if I am afraid to write my chronicle before I see what is in the time capsule and I answer that thorough research has no fears. The thing is this, the first ten years are terra incognita and my job is to reconstruct them. I do not quail, Quinn.” Stanton had the scent now. He was moving. Quinn’s stomach got colder.
    â€œNice to see you.”
    Olson came in. Thin, intelligent Jack Olson, native of this Northern country, was wearing an apron and carrying a tray, holding the tray aloft on his left hand and with the other unloading snacks, bonbons and party favors. As Stanton went in one end of the group, Quinn squeezed out the other and went over to Olson. “Why aren’t you fishing?” Olson asked. Quinn liked the quiet sanity of his voice.
    â€œI don’t know why,” he confessed.
    â€œThe big duns will be on the water. I got a handful of nymphs out of the feeder creek and the shuck was all dark, almost black on the top where the wings show. Why don’t you pass this up?” Olson said contemptuously of the party. He knew Quinn wouldn’t misunderstand him.
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œTell you what, I’ll have a look at the river. If I got it right about the hatch, I’ll come get you.”
    â€œThat’d be good. I’d love to go. What about Vernor?” Olson looked over at Stanton who made his way from conversation to conversation toward them. He didn’t conceal the hesitation before saying, “Why not.” Quinn nodded, then turned hopelessly back toward the group to find Stanton opposite him, having sandwiched some of the older members between himself and the unwitting Quinn. He was encouraging them in sentimental reminiscence. “Autumn boulevards,” he was saying. “A leaf falls slowly to the sidewalk, right?”
    â€œThat’s what happens,” said an old gentleman sadly.
    â€œHow about when you first found that old portrait of Mummy in her wedding gown?” Assenting murmurs. “And the portrait is in an oval frame?” More of them. “Now, what about this: the summer house is boarded up. The luggage is out on the porch. The refreshment stand is closed for the winter. Already, the ocean just isn’t as blue—”
    â€œOh, gawd!” said one of the women morosely. Stanton seized the moment to begin singing softly and in the most cloying voice possible, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot —Come on, won’t you join me, fellows!” The others, staring and unwilling, began. Stanton stopped them priggishly. Quinn saw Janey a short distance away, watching and talking to no one. By this time, Stanton had gathered most of them in front of the piano. He was running back and forth with a purely imaginary choirmaster’s scuttle, adjusting shoulders and making people stand up straight. The others began to look on. “Come, ladies!” Stanton cried joyously. “You join us, too, won’t you?” Some of the women who had stood aside piled in behind. “James!” he called, letting his eye fall horribly on Quinn. “Do us the honors on the piano!”
    â€œNo, I—”
    â€œJames!” The contemptuous disappointment that Quinn had seen when he offered the box lunches at Mackinac began to spread on Stanton’s face.
    â€œI may as well,” Quinn said, overpowered. Stanton bent to the storage box beside the bandstand. He stood up with a tuberous, corroded saxophone in his hands, the reed of which he