When Keith Cochran bought a blighted old house on Carnegie Street in Lawrenceville in 2004, a condition of sale was that a bunch of guys could keep hanging out in the basement.

As real estate anomalies go, this may be the only one with an Olympic-sized shuffleboard table, $2 beers, and a sergeant-at-arms called the Mad Chihuahua.

The guys in the basement are members of the Electric Club, a social tribe since 1891.

Employees of Westinghouse established it, first in Wilkinsburg and later in Homewood before buying the Lawrenceville property in 1973 from the Slovenian Eagle Society.

Long unassociated with Westinghouse, the club had been in search of a benevolent buyer when Mr. Cochran came along, wanting to restore the 1830s Greek Revival estate as his next home.

It wasn't just one of the oldest buildings in the neighborhood and the city. It had once belonged to Andrew Carnegie's brother, Thomas, when the property stretched to the river and included the Lucy Furnace. It was subdivided early in the 20th century, but the property remains one of Upper Lawrenceville's grandest, albeit with boarded windows.

Jack Koch, 73, said the club rented out some of the rooms for a while and more recently had an interested buyer "paying so much a month for so many years, but then they decided they couldn't afford it anymore."

For most of the past 35 years, it's the basement that has kept the house alive.

But the members were mostly older and overwhelmed by the needs of a 179-year-old, 11-room estate and grounds. They wanted to protect the liquor license, which goes with the property, and the property needed a rescue.

"It's as solid as a rock," said Mr. Cochran, pounding his fist on a hallway on the first floor, making barely a sound. At one time, a "bomb shelter" sign was tacked onto the side of the building. But the place was a gut job, with paint peeling, rotting floor boards and antiquated utilities.

"I bought it five years ago and have been working on it ever since," said Mr. Cochran, an architect in Lawrenceville who lives in the West End. His purchase price of $40,000 also took care of the club's rent for 10 years. "It was clear from the beginning that the club was not going to be a problem for me. I got to know them; they're all great guys."

One is Ed Kowalski, a laid-off sheet-metal worker and the club's president. He lives in Lawrenceville and maintains a vegetable garden on the grounds, complete with a rain barrel.

Of about 50 dues-paying members, he said, 10 to 20 are regulars at the bar, which is what the club essentially is -- a drinking fraternity with about 15 female members.

"At one time, after 4 o'clock, you couldn't get a seat," said Mr. Kowalski.

The Electric Club would like to grow, said Mr. Koch, a member since 1978. A retired Morningside letter carrier, he lives in Stanton Heights and is one of a handful of weekday regulars.

It grew by two when Mr. Cochran and his wife, Mary, joined.

But it's a marginal enterprise. The club charges $15 to join, and dues are $5 a year. The liquor license costs $180 a year, and the club pays a third of the utilities, its own phone and cable bills.

Most either live or once lived in Lawrenceville. George Rafaloski, a member for eight years, is a retired taxi driver.

The Mad Chihuahua, Jerry Callwood, -- so named because he tops out under 5 feet, according to club members -- is doing double duty as sergeant-at-arms and acting steward. Mr. Koch explained that the Mad C has the most responsibility.

"The sergeant-at-arms can throw someone out," said Mr. Koch, who keeps the books. "The steward's job is to stock the bar."

Mr. Callwood said he got the nickname because "they pick on me for being short."

"When he gets mad at someone," said Mr. Kowalski, "he stands on his chair."

The bar smells like a blast from the past, when people were allowed to smoke and everyone did. It has a trough where no one spits anymore. It's where you put your feet. The ceiling wires are exposed pending a new covering. Framed memorabilia from club history adorn the walls. For meaningful sporting events, especially Steelers Sundays, the place is usually crowded.

"Keith has high hopes for the place and a lot of ambition to fix it up," said Mr. Koch. "I hope everything pans out all right."

Of the regulars, he said, "We argue," smiling fondly at a small group assembled one late afternoon. "Then we shake hands, wipe the slate clean and start a new argument tomorrow."