Quicksands by B.M. Croker — Read

The station club, "the very heart of the community," as described by Mrs. Soames, lay about two miles from our lines. As we drove down there behind our spanking Australian cabs, my chaperon, who was a great talker, enlarged upon the subject.

"Our club," she remarked, "is capitally situated just half way between the cantonments and Hyderabad city, close to the parade ground, shops and cemetery, with roads diverging in every direction; a modern but not very dignified building, as you see. Its businesslike outline and platform verandas have led scoffers to compare it to a railway station, and hint that it is the work of a railway engineer, who desired to raise a monument to the glory of his line! In this idea there may be a touch of professional jealousy; anyway, 'handsome is that handsome does.' The club is supplied with the latest improvements in the matter of ventilation and comfort. No London club has better billiard tables, more luxurious armchairs, or a superior cook. We women are not suffered to set foot in it, except on special occasions, such as receptions and balls; mankind are a greedy, selfish pack, who keep the best of everything for themselves! Well, here we are!" as we turned abruptly into a large enclosure. "It's rather early," she continued, "I see the bullock bandy with the band has only just arrived, so we may as well sit in the carriage for a little longer and I will point you out the chief objects of interest."