"It's in shape—practically so."
"Will you send for it?"
The Duke nodded to Harlan, and the young man arose. "Tell Wasgatt I want him to come down here with the resolutions," he directed.
And while he was gone there was no conversation in the parlor. It might have been because the band was playing too loudly; it might have been because General Waymouth's visage, grave, stern, almost forbidding, rather dampened the recent cordiality of the gathering.
CHAPTER XVI
THE HANDS ARE DEALT
When Committeeman Wasgatt came into the room in tow of Harlan Thornton he found silence prevailing there. It was silence that was marked by a little restraint. The band outside was quiet now. A human voice was bellowing. It was Arba Spinney's voice—a voice without words.
Wasgatt, short, stout, habitually pop-eyed and nervous, clutched his papers in one hand and held his eyeglasses at arm's-length in the other.
The others were in their chairs now, ranged about the sides of the room. The General, alone, was standing near the table. Wasgatt turned to him after a rapid scrutiny of the make-up of the party.
"I'd like to have the resolutions read," remarked the General, quietly.