Hunter was thoroughly at home. He took my coat and his own and hung them somewhere to dry. Then he went into a sort of pantry opening off the kitchen and came out with four bottles of beer. "We take care of ourselves here," he explained, as the newly barbered youth washed some glasses. "If you want a sandwich, there is cooked ham in the refrigerator and cheese--if our friend at the sink has left any." The boy looked up from his glasses. "It's rat-trap cheese, that stuff," he growled. "The other ran out an hour ago and didn't come back," put in the mayor, grinning. "You can kill that with mustard, if it's too lively." "Get some cigars, will you?" Hunter asked me. "They're on a shelf in the pantry. I have my hands full." I went for the cigars, remembering to keep my eyes open. The pantry was a small room: it contained an ice-box, stocked with drinkables, ham, eggs and butter. On shelves above were cards, cigars and liquors, and there, too, I saw a box with an indorsement which showed the "honor system" of the Cat Club. "Sign checks and drop here," it read, and I thought about the old adage of honor among thieves and politicians. When I came out with the cigars Hunter was standing with a group of new arrivals; they included one of the city physicians, the director of public charities and a judge of a local court. The latter, McFeely, a little, thin Irishman, knew me and accosted me at once. The mayor was busy over the range, and was almost purple with heat and unwonted anxiety. When the three new-comers went up-stairs, instead of going into the grill-room, I looked at Hunter. "Is this where the political game is played?" I asked. "Yes, if the political game is poker," he replied, and led the way into the room which adjoined the kitchen. No one paid any attention to us. Bare tables, a wooden floor, and almost as many cuspidors as chairs, comprised the furniture of the long room. In one corner was a battered upright piano, and there were two fireplaces with old-fashioned mantels. Perhaps a dozen men were sitting around, talking loudly, with much scraping of chairs on the bare floor. At one table they were throwing poker dice, but the rest were drinking beer and talking in a desultory way. At the piano a man with a red mustache was mimicking the sextette from _Lucia_ and a roar of applause met us as we entered the room. Hunter led the way to a corner and put down his bottles. "It's fairly quiet to-night," he said. "To-morrow's the big night--Saturday." "What time do they close up?" I asked. In answer Hunter pointed to a sign over the door. It was a card, neatly printed, and it said, "The White Cat never sleeps." "There are only two rules here," he explained. "That is one, and the other is, 'If you get too noisy, and the patrol wagon comes, make the driver take you home.'"