“What’re you doing?” asked Fancy. “Standin’ here to give them howlin’ muckers a chance to see how bad you feel? Where’s the police, anyhow? They oughter pinch that whole bunch for disturbin’ the peace.” “It would take the whole police force of the city to arrest a single man of them and land him in the caboose,” said Kilgore. “Kingsbridge didn’t send down a hundred fighting men to see any one of them pinched because he was celebrating a victory over us.” “We was lookin’ for you, Riley,” said Dyke. “Come on over to Kilgore’s office.” “What for?” growled the manager, having drawn back and shaken off Fancy’s hand. “We’re goin’ to have a consultation; we’re goin’ to talk this thing over. Jorkins and Butler will be right along. We’ve told ’em to come.” “What’re you tryin’ to do――make trouble fer me?” rasped Riley resentfully. “You’ve got busy mighty quick after the game, ain’t ye?” “It’s sure time something was done,” retorted Fancy defensively. “This town won’t stand for much more of the medicine it had to swaller to-day.” “That’s right,” agreed the lawyer. “Everybody is sore over it. To be downed by Fryeburg or Lakeport would be bad enough, but to have Kingsbridge rub it into us――oh, blazes!” “I don’t s’pose you guys got an idea I’m goin’ to lay down and let the Kinks keep it up right along?” snapped the manager. “I reckoned you knew I warn’t built that way.” “It won’t do any hurt to talk over what’s to be done,” said Dyke. “Come on!” Riley followed them, scowling blackly. They crossed the street along which the hilarious Kingsbridgers had passed, came to an open doorway two blocks farther on, and mounted a rather dark flight of stairs. Kilgore jingled a bunch of keys attached to a chain, and opened a door bearing his name lettered upon it, at the head of the stairs. The office consisted of two uncarpeted rooms, the front and larger having windows which looked upon the street. The lawyer flung open one of those windows, through which drifted distant and dying sounds of the celebrating Kingsbridgers. Then he motioned his companions to chairs, himself taking the swivel in front of his littered, untidy desk. “Had to let my stenographer off for the game,” he said. “She made a bluff that she was half sick and had a terrible headache, but I knew what ailed her, and I cured her by giving her a pass. She’ll come back to-morrow feeling worse than ever over our licking.” “Natural enough,” said Dyke, sitting down. “It’ll make the whole town sick.” Riley’s chair cracked under his weight. “Ain’t got a swaller of somethin’ round here, have ye, Kilgore?” he asked. The lawyer produced a “longnecker” and a dirty glass. “Running water in the back room if you want it,” he said. But the manager, having no desire to dilute the amber liquid with which he almost overran the glass, and disdaining a “chaser,” took his “straight.” Dyke followed with a small “nip,” but Kilgore asked to be excused from joining them, and put away the bottle and glass.