“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.