"Say," came a deep and raucous voice from one of the newcomers. "Why don't we have just a straw boss for a while till we see how things work out? If anyone gets fresh the straw boss can jump him, or kick him out, but those that stick with the gang have to listen to him. How's that?" "Fine," said Ben, heartily. "You mean have a kind of Mussolini for a while?" "That's the idea. You ought to be it." There was a clanging round of metallic applause as three or four people clapped their hands. "There is a motion--" began Roberts. "Oh, tie a can to it," said Gloria, irreverently, "I nominate Ben Ruby as dictator of the colony of New York for--three months. Everybody that's for it, stick up your hands." Eleven hands went up. Gloria looked around at those who remained recalcitrant and concentrated her gaze on Stevens. "Won't you join us, Mr. Stevens?" she asked sweetly. "I don't think this is the way to do things," said the Wall Street man with a touch of asperity. "It's altogether irregular and no permanent good can result from it. However, I will act with the rest." "And you, Yoshio?" "I am uncertain that permission is granted to this miserable worm to vote." "Certainly. We're all starting from scratch. Who else is there? What about you, Mr. Lee?" "Oh, I know him too well." The rest of the opposition dissolved in laughter and Ben made his way to the place by the counter vacated by Roberts. "The first thing we can do is have some light," he ordered. "Does anyone know where candles can be had around here? I suppose there ought to be some in the drug store across the street, but I don't know where and there's no light to look by." "How about flashlights? There's an electrical and radio store up the block." "Fine, Murray you go look. Now Miss Roberts, will you be our secretary? I think the first thing to do is to get down the name and occupation of everyone here. That will give us a start toward finding out what we can do. Ready? Now you, Miss Rutherford, first." "My name is Gloria Rutherford and I can't do anything but play tennis, drink gin and drive a car." The rest of the replies followed: "F. W. Stevens, Wall Street," "Theodore Roberts, lawyer," "Archibald Tholfsen, chess-player," "H. M. Dangerfield, editor," "Francis X. O'Hara, trucking business," (this was the loud-voiced man who had cut the Gordian knot of the argument about organization). "Are you a mechanic, too?" asked Ben. "Well, not a first class one, but I know a little about machinery." "Good, you're appointed our doctor." "Paul Farrelly, publisher," "Albert F. Massey, artist"--the voices droned on in the uncertain illumination of the flashlights.