The three years' lease was signed; and a bulletin board appeared on the bravest of all the battered old trees at the front--the very battle front. A gnarled and twisted cedar it was, and when a richer name than "Club" was sought for the venture, it was this old tree that linked up memory with itself and the house was named, not "The People's Club," as at first intended, but "Cedar Mountain House"--the word "mountain" being justified in the fact that the house was on a prairie knoll at least a foot above the surrounding level. The bulletin board displayed this to all passers-by: --------------------------------------------------- | CEDAR MOUNTAIN HOUSE | | | | Notice | | | |A Meeting to organize this Club will be held here| |on these premises Sunday afternoon next. Men and | |women who are interested are cordially invited. | | | | REFRESHMENTS | --------------------------------------------------- The Board of Deacons would have had a wrangle over each and every word of that notice. That was why they never saw it till long afterward. "Now what's going to happen?" said Hopkins. "A few will come and act very shyly; but I've a notion the refreshments will bring them," was Belle's guess. "I am afraid we have omitted something of importance," said Jim. "We are invading a foreign savage country without taking any count of the native chiefs." "What's your idea?" said Hopkins, sharply. "I mean, we have arranged matters with the real estate man, and the Church workers and the police; but we haven't taken the trouble to look up the ward boss." "We ignored the boss because we thought he was an enemy," said Hopkins. "I'm not so sure about that," said Jim. "I've been talking with the police sergeant, who knows him well. He says he's a queer mixture of prizefighter and politician. He can protect anything he likes, and pretty nearly drive out anything he doesn't like. Isn't it worth while making a bid for his support? It may please him to be asked." "Who is he?" "Oh, a saloon-keeper, Irish, ex-pugilist. His name is Michael Shay. He's easy to find," said Jim. "Let's go now," said Hopkins. "But I'm afraid that this is where you drop out, Mrs. Hartigan." So they went down to the headquarters of the boss. It was an ordinary Chicago saloon of less than ordinary pretensions. The plate-glass and polished-mahogany era had not yet set in. The barkeeper was packing the ice chest and a couple of "types" were getting their "reg'lar" as the two strangers from another world entered. The build of Hartigan at once suggested plain-clothes policeman, and the barkeeper eyed him suspiciously. Hopkins spoke first: "Is the boss in?"