right and clean; it was littered, however, with
half-cut loaves of bread, glasses and empty bottles. Over the range a
man in his shirt sleeves was giving his whole attention to a slice of
ham, sizzling on a skillet, and at a table near-by a young fellow, with
his hair cut in a barber's oval over the back of his neck, was
spreading slices of bread and cheese with mustard.

"How are you, Mr. Mayor?" Hunter said, as he shed his raincoat. "This is
Mr. Knox, the man who's engineering the _Star-Eagle_ fight."

The man over the range wiped one greasy hand and held it out to me.

"The Cat is purring a welcome," he said, indicating the frying ham. "If
my cooking turns out right I'll ask you to have some ham with me. I
don't know why in thunder it gets black in the middle and won't cook
around the edges."

I recognized the mayor. He was a big fellow, handsome in a heavy way,
and "Tommy" to every one who knew him. It seemed I was about to see my
city government at play.

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 purpl