This was the contemptible Peace Party at whose headquarters Terrence Malone stood gazing.  He determined to venture into the den and see what it was like.  The hour for the opening of congress had arrived, and men with bundles of papers in their hands and anxious looks on their faces hurried away to the capitol building.  Some were congressmen, but most of them were New England merchants.  Terrence waited until all were gone, then, as the door of the headquarters stood wide open inviting him to enter, he walked boldly into the apartment.

A man about thirty-five, dressed very neatly, with glasses on, was writing at a table littered with papers.

“Good morning to yez,” said Terrence entering.

“Good morning, sir,” said the writer, giving him a glance and resuming his writing as if the fate of the nation depended on it.

“An’ so this is the place where ye make peace?”

“It’s the place where we keep peace.  It’s the place where we oppose the foolish and suicidal policy of President Madison,” was the curt answer.

“Who are you, misther?”

“I am Ebenezer Crane, sir, secretary of the Peace Party.”

“Well, Misther Ebenezer Crane,” and Terrence glanced at the secretary’s long legs, as if he thought the name no misnomer, “will yez answer me a few questions?”

“Certainly,” and Mr. Crane threw down his pen, wheeled his chair about and looked vastly important.  “What have you to ask?”

“Why do you oppose the war?”

“Why should I favor it?”

“Don’t the government promise protection to its citizens?  Is not the blissed stars and stripes insulted by the British?  Have not they set the murdherin’ haythin to killin’ innocent women and children on the frontier, and have they surrendered the posts as they should?”

Mr. Crane, with one wave of his hand, swept away every objection.

“That is all nothing!” he cried.

“Nothing! howly mother, sir! do you call it nothing for Americans to be knocked down, carried aboard British ships, to be made slaves, to be flogged until they die, and shot if they object?”

“Oh, those are all senseless, sensational stories, told for effect.”

“But I say they are true.  I have jist returned from nearly four years service on a British man-o-war.”

“But, sir, we must look to the welfare of our country.  What are the lives of a few sailors—­common fellows—­compared to the rich commerce we enjoy with England?  The wealthy men of New England would surely be ruined by war.”

“Ye blackguard! do ye set up the riches of New England against the life of men because they are poor?”

“Certainly,” answered Mr. Crane, taking a cigar from his case, lighting it and proceeding to smoke.  “What do Drake and Smoot, whom I represent, care for sailors like yourself?  Why, if England wants such wretches, let her have them.  We would sell them by the hundred, if we had our way.  Caleb Strong, William Palmer and Roger Griswold, three of New England’s leaders, will never allow a soldier to march from their states to fight the English—­oh, no!”