They all shook hands, and Peter rang a
bell.
"What shall it be?" he asked.
There was a moment's hesitation, and then one said. "Order for us.
You're host. Just what you like."
Peter smiled. "Thomas," he said, "bring us eight Apollinaris cocktails."
The men all laughed, and Thomas said, "Beg pardon, Mr. Stirling?" in a
bewildered way. Thomas had served the club many years, but he had never
heard of that cocktail.
"Well, Thomas," said Peter, "if you don't have that in stock, make it
seven Blackthorns."
Then presently eight men packed themselves into the elevator, and a
moment later were sitting in one of the private dining-rooms. For an
hour and a half they chatted over the meal, very much as if it were
nothing more than a social dinner. But the moment the servant had passed
the cigars and light, and had withdrawn, the chat suddenly ceased, and a
silence came for a moment Then a man said:
"It's a pity it can't please all, but the majority's got to rule."
"Yes," promptly said another, "this is really a Maguire ratification
meeting.
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