We were eight in number; we met at eight o'clock during eight months of the year; we played eight games of four-handed cribbage, at eightpence the game; our frugal supper was composed of eight rolls, eight mutton chops, eight pork sausages, eight baked potatoes, eight marrow-bones, with eight toasts, and eight bottles of ale.

There may, or may not, be a certain harmony of colour in the ruling idea of this (to adopt a phrase of our lively neighbours) reunion.

It was a little idea of mine.
[Picture: Facsimile of a page of the manuscript of "The Mystery of Edwin Drood"] A somewhat popular member of the Eight Club, was a member by the name of Kimber.

By profession, a dancing-master.

A commonplace, hopeful sort of man, wholly destitute of dignity or knowledge of the world.
As I entered the Club-room, Kimber was making the remark: "And he still half-believes him to be very high in the Church." In the act of hanging up my hat on the eighth peg by the door, I caught Kimber's visual ray.