“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 shells if it really felt strong.  See what it offers us.  All the local and State ticket except six assemblymen, 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: 

“Come.  We’ve decided.  Now, put up or shut up.  No more beating about the bush.”

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Tell us what you intend, Stirling,” said Number One.  “We are committed beyond retreat.  Come in with us, or stay outside the breastworks.”

“Perhaps,” said Peter, “since you’ve taken your own position, without consulting me, you will allow me the same privilege.”

“Go to—­where you please,” said Number Six, crossly.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Well, what do you intend to do?” asked Number One.

Peter knocked the ash off his cigar.  “You consider yourselves pledged to support Maguire?”

“Yes.  We are pledged,” said four voices in unison.

“So am I,” said Peter.

“How?”

“To oppose him,” said Peter.

“But I tell you the majority of the convention is for him,” said Number
One.  “Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Then what good will your opposition do?”

“It will defeat Maguire.”

“No power on earth can do that.”

Peter puffed his cigar.

“You can’t beat him in the convention, Stirling.  The delegates pledged to him, and those we can give him elect him on the first ballot.”

“How about November fourth?” asked Peter.

Number One sprang to his feet.  “You don’t mean?” he cried.

“Never!” said Number Three.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Come, Stirling, say what you intend!”

“I intend,” said Peter, “if the Democratic convention endorses Stephen Maguire, to speak against him in every ward of this city, and ask every man in it, whom I can influence, to vote for the Republican candidate.”

Dead silence reigned.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“You’ll go back on the party?” finally said one, in awe-struck tones.

“You’ll be a traitor?” cried another.

“I’d have believed anything but that you would be a dashed Mugwump!” groaned the third.

Peter puffed his cigar.

“Say you are fooling?” begged Number Seven.