"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,