"No," said Peter, rising and shaking hands. "I gave up reading about that ten years ago. Life is too short."

"Pelton and Webber were checking their respectability in the coat-room, as I came up. I suppose they are in the cafe."

Peter said nothing, but turned, and the two entered that room. Peter shook hands with three men who were there, and they all drew up round one of the little tables. A good many men who saw that group, nudged each other, and whispered remarks.

"A reporter from the _Sun_ is in the strangers' room. Mr. Stirling, and asks to see you," said a servant.

"I cannot see him," said Peter, quietly. "But say to him that I may possibly have something to tell him about eleven o'clock."

The four men at the table exchanged glances.

"I can't imagine a newspaper getting an interview out of you, Stirling,"

laughed one of them a little nervously.

Peter smiled. "Very few of us are absolutely consistent. I can't imagine any of you, for instance, making a political mistake but perhaps you may some day."

A pause of a curious kind came after this, which was only interrupted by the arrival of three more men. They all shook hands, and Peter rang a bell.

"What shall it be?" he asked.

There was a moment's hesitation, and then one said. "Order for us.

You're host. Just what you like."

Peter smiled. "Thomas," he said, "bring us eight Apollinaris c.o.c.ktails."

The men all laughed, and Thomas said, "Beg pardon, Mr. Stirling?" in a bewildered way. Thomas had served the club many years, but he had never heard of that c.o.c.ktail.

"Well, Thomas," said Peter, "if you don't have that in stock, make it seven Blackthorns."

Then presently eight men packed themselves into the elevator, and a moment later were sitting in one of the private dining-rooms. For an hour and a half they chatted over the meal, very much as if it were nothing more than a social dinner. But the moment the servant had pa.s.sed the cigars and light, and had withdrawn, the chat suddenly ceased, and a silence came for a moment Then a man said:

"It's a pity it can't please all, but the majority's got to rule."

"Yes," promptly said another, "this is really a Maguire ratification meeting."

"There's nothing else to do," affirmed a third.

But a fourth said: "Then what are we here for?"

No one seemed to find an answer. After a moment's silence, the original speaker said:

"It's the only way we can be sure of winning."

"He gives us every pledge," echoed the second.

"And we've agreed, anyways, so we are bound," continued the first speaker.

Peter took his cigar out of his mouth. "Who are bound?" he asked, quietly.

"Why, the organization is--the party," said Number Two, with a "deny-it-if-you-dare" in his voice.

"I don't see how we can back out now, Stirling," said Number One.

"Who wants to?" said another. "The Labor party promises to support us on our local nominations, and Maguire is not merely a Democrat, but he gives us every pledge."

"There's no good of talking of anything else anyhow," said Number One, "for there will be a clean majority for Maguire in the convention."

"And no other candidate can poll fifty votes on the first ballot," said Number Two.

Then they all looked at Peter, and became silent. Peter puffed his cigar thoughtfully.

"What do you say?" said Number One.

Peter merely shook his head.

"But I tell you it's done," cried one of the men, a little excitedly.

"It's too late to backslide! We want to please you, Stirling, but we can't this time. We must do what's right for the party."

"I'm not letting my own feeling decide it," said Peter. "I'm thinking of the party. For every vote the Labor people give Maguire, the support of that party will lose us a Democratic vote."

"But we can't win with a triangular fight. The Republicans will simply walk over the course."

If Peter had been a hot-headed reformer, he would have said: "Better that than that such a scoundrel shall win." But Peter was a politician, and so saw no need of saying the unpleasantest thing that occurred to him, even if he felt it. Instead, he said: "The Labor party will get as many votes from the Republicans as from us, and, for every vote the Labor party takes from us, we shall get a Republican vote, if we put up the right kind of a man."

"Nonsense," cried Number One.

"How do you figure that?" asked another.

"In these panic times, the nomination of such a man as Maguire, with his truckling to the lowest pa.s.sions and his socialistic speeches, will frighten conservative men enough to make them break party lines, and unite on the most certain candidate. That will be ours."

"But why risk it, when, with Maguire, it's certain?"

Peter wanted to say: "Maguire shall not be endorsed, and that ends it."

Instead, he said: "We can win with our own man, and don't need to trade with or endorse the Labor party. We can elect Maguire by the aid of the worst votes in this city, or we can elect our own man by the aid of the best. The one weakens our party in the future; the other strengthens it."

"You think that possible?" asked the man who had sought information as to what they "were here for."

"Yes. The Labor party makes a stir, but it wouldn't give us the oyster and be content with the sh.e.l.ls if it really felt strong. See what it offers us. All the local and State ticket except six a.s.semblymen, two senators, and a governor, tied hand and foot to us, whose proudest claim for years has been that he's a Democrat."

"But all this leaves out of sight the fact that the thing's done," said Number One.

Peter puffed his cigar.

"Yes. It's too late. The polls are closed," said another.

Peter stopped puffing. "The convention hasn't met," he remarked, quietly.

That remark, however, seemed to have a sting in it, for Number Two cried: