The Short Line War. Samuel Merwin

      “We couldn't put it through in time for the election anyhow.”

      “The eighth? That's two weeks.”

      “I know it, but we'd have to work the opposition.”

      “Talk business, Blaney. I'll make it worth your while.”

      “What'll you give?”

      “For the stock?”

      “Well—yes, for the stock.”

      “I'll give you par.”

      “Um—when?”

      “That depends on you. However, if you really want time, you can have it. I suppose you boys vote the stock?”

      All three nodded.

      “Well, you vote for our men, and I'll sign an agreement to pay cash at par after the meeting.”

      “Why not now?”

      “I wouldn't have any hold on you. Anyhow, I won't pay till I get the stock, and you seem to want time.”

      Blaney glanced at the other two. They were watching McNally closely, and Williams was fumbling his watch chain. Blaney's eyes met McNally's.

      “What'll you do for us?” he asked. “It'll take careful work.”

      For answer McNally rose and went to the bed, where his bag lay open. He rummaged a moment, then returned with a pack of cards.

      “Forgot my chips,” he said, seating himself. “Close up, boys.”

      He dealt the cards with deft hands. Blaney started to take his up, then paused with his hand over them.

      “What's the ante?” he asked.

      “Oh, five hundred?” McNally replied.

      Blaney pushed the cards back.

      “No,” he said, “not enough.”

      Williams seconded his chief with a shake of the head.

      “Well, name it yourself.”

      “A thousand.”

      McNally pursed his lips, then drew out a wallet, and counted out three thousand dollars in large bills, which he laid in the centre of the table.

      “There's four playing,” suggested Blaney.

      McNally scowled.

      “Don't be a hog, Blaney.” He took up his hand, then laid it down and rose, adding—

      “Can't do anything with that hand.”

      The three Committeemen dropped their cards and each pocketed a third of the money. Mr. McNally fished a pad from his grip and wrote the contract binding himself to pay for the stock after the election on condition that it should be voted at his dictation. He signed it, and tossed it across the table.

      “All right, Mr. McNally,” said Blaney, holding out his hand. “I guess we can see you through. Good night.”

      “Good night, Blaney; good night, boys.” McNally shook hands cordially with each. “We'll have a good road here yet.”

      When their footfalls died away in the hall, Mr. McNally turned to the table, gathered the cards, and replaced them in his bag. The room was close with cigar smoke, and he threw open the windows. With the sensation of removing something offensive, he washed his hands. He stood for a few moments looking out the window at the quiet city, then he sauntered downstairs and into the deserted parlor, seating himself at the piano. His plump hands wandered over the keys with surprisingly delicate touch. For a short time he improvised. Then as the night quiet stole into his thoughts, he drifted into Rubinstein's Melody in F, playing it dreamily.