“HE PUTS MAGUIRE OUT ON THIRD BASE.”

* * * * *

“NOW PLAY BALL!”

And unintelligible as this latter sounds, it was near enough the truth to suggest inspiration.  But there is no need to reprint the article that followed, for now it is possible, for the first time, to tell what actually occurred; and this contribution should alone permit this work to rank, as no doubt it is otherwise fully qualified to, in the dullest class of all books, that of the historical novel.

The facts are, that Peter alighted from a hansom one evening, in the middle of July, and went into the Manhattan Club.  He exchanged greetings with a number of men in the halls, and with more who came in while he was reading the evening papers.  A man came up to him while he still read, and said: 

“Well, Stirling.  Reading about your own iniquity?”

“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 cocktails.”

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 cocktail.

“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 passed the cigars and light, and had withdrawn, the chat suddenly ceased, and a silence came for a moment Then a man said: