Peter declared the meeting adjourned as soon as the results of the election had been read, and slipped away in the turmoil that immediately followed, without a word to any one. He was in truth not bewildered—because he had too much natural poise and phlegm—but he was surprised by the suddenness of it all, and wanted to think before talking with others. So he took advantage of the mutual bickerings and recriminations which seemed the order of the day, to get back to his office, and there he sat, studying his wall for a time. Then he went to bed, and slept as quickly and as calmly as if he had spent his evening in reading the “Modern Cottage Architecture” or “Questions de Sociologie,” which were on his table instead of presiding at a red-hot primary, and being elected a delegate. The next morning Dennis came to see him as early as well could be. “Misther Stirling,” he said, his face expanding into the broadest of grins, “let me salute the delegate to the State convention.” “Look here, Dennis,” said Peter, “you know you had no business to spring that on me.” “Ah, sir! Shure, when that dirty little spalpeen av a Caggs went back on us so, what could Oi do? Oi know it’s speak to yez Oi ought, but wid de room yellin’ like that it’s divilish tryin’ to do the right thing quick, barrin’ it’s not hittin’ some one’s head, which always comes natural.” “Well,” said Peter, “of course I’m very much pleased to have been chosen, but I wish it could have been done with less hard feeling.” “Hard feelin,’ is it?” “Yes.” “Shure, the b’ys are as pleased and kindly this mornin’ as can be. It’s a fight like that makes them yieldin’ an’ friendly. Nothin’ but a little head-punchin’ could make them in a sweeter mood, an’ we’d a given them that if little Caggs had had any sense in him.” “You mean Gallagher and Blunkers and the rest of them?” “Av course. That little time last night didn’t mean much. No one feels bad over that. Shure, it’s Gallagher was in my place later last night, an’ we had a most friendly time, he treatin’ the whole crowd twice. We’ve got to fight in the primary to keep the b’ys interested, but it’s seldom that they’re not just as friendly the next day.” Peter looked at his wall. He had not liked Gallagher at either time he had met him. “Still,” he thought to himself, “I have no right to prevent him and Dennis being friends, from the little I’ve seen.” “Now, sir, about the convention?” said Dennis. “I suppose Porter is the best man talked of for the nomination,” remarked Peter. “Begobs, sir, that he’s not,” said Dennis. “It’s Justice Gallagher was tellin’ me himself that he was a poor kind av creature, wid a strong objection to saloons.” Peter’s eye lost its last suggestion of doubt. “Oh, Justice Gallagher told you that?” he asked. “When?” “Last night.” “After the primary?” “Av course.” “Whom does he favor?” “Catlin.” “Well, Dennis, you’ve made me a delegate, but I’ve got to vote my own way.”