“Is that the place, sir?” asked Thompson with the lamb-like innocence of the criminal reporter.
“Yes, upstairs there.”
“What did I tell you?” said the religious editor. “Thompson insisted it was next door.”
“Come along,” said McCrasky, “the police are moving at last.”
A big bell in the neighborhood solemnly struck two slow strokes, and all over the city the hour sounded in various degrees of tone and speed. A whistle rang out and was distantly answered. The police moved quickly and quietly up the stairway.
“Have you tickets, gentlemen,” asked the man at the door politely; “this is a private assembly.”
“The police,” said the sergeant shortly, “stand aside.”
If the police were astonished at the sight which met their gaze, their faces did not show it. But McCrasky had not such control over his features and he looked dumbfounded. The room was the same, undoubtedly, but there was not the vestige of a card to be seen. There were no tables, and even the bar had disappeared. The chairs were nicely arranged and most of them were occupied. At the further end of the room Pony Rowell stood on a platform or on a box or some elevation, and his pale, earnest face was lighted up with the enthusiasm of the public speaker. He was saying: “On the purity of the ballot, gentlemen, depends the very life of the republic. That every man should be permitted, without interference or intimidation, to cast his vote, and that every vote so cast should be honestly counted is, I take it, the desire of all who now listen to my words.” (Great applause, during which Pony took a sip from a glass that may have contained water.)
The police had come in so quietly that no one, apparently, had noticed their entrance, except that good man Mellish, who hurried forward to welcome the intruders.
“Will you take a seat?” he asked. “We are having a little political talk from Mr. Rowell, sergeant.”