"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." "Rather an unusual hour, Mr. Mellish," said the sergeant grimly. "It is a little late," admitted Mellish, as if the idea had not occurred to him before. The police who had come in by the back entrance appeared at the other end of the room and it was evident that Rowell's oration had come to an untimely end. Pony looked grieved and hurt, but said nothing. "We will have to search the premises, Mr. Mellish," said the sergeant. Mellish gave them every assistance, but nothing was found. As the four men walked back together to the Argus office, McCrasky was very indignant. "We will expose the police to-morrow," he said. "They evidently gave Mellish the tip." "I don't think so," said Thompson. "We will say nothing about it." "You forget yourself, Mr. Thompson. It rests with me to say what shall go on the local page. Not with you." "I don't forget myself," answered Thompson sadly; "I've just remembered myself. The Directors of the Argus appointed me local editor yesterday. Didn't they tell you about it? That's just like them. They forgot to mention the fact to Corbin that he had been superseded and the manager went off fishing after appointing Jonsey local editor, so that for a week we had two local editors, each one countermanding the orders of the other. It was an awful week. You remember it, Murren?" Murren's groan seemed to indicate that his recollection of the exciting time was not a pleasant memory.