“Of course. It met in an underground place somewhere, didn’t it? And if I remember right, it was fitted up like the Café Au Mort in Paris.”
“Something of the sort.” The investigator went to a huge card system and pulled out a drawer labeled “To.” “But I recall it best by the steward whose philosophy and Irish turns of speech were so frequently quoted by the newspapers during the heydey of the establishment. Can you recall his name?”
“I know whom you mean,” answered Pendleton, “but the name has slipped me.”
Ashton-Kirk paused in the fingering of the cards.
“It was Tobin,” said he. “It came to me that it was, but I wanted to be sure.” He pushed the drawer into place, looked at his friend inquiringly, and added: “Suppose we go around to the ‘Rangnow’ and see him?”
XX
One of the Old Sort
Pendleton looked at his friend in bewilderment.
“You don’t mean to say that the philosopher of the Coffin Club and this Tobin of young Morris’s are the same,” cried he.
“I only think they are,” said Ashton-Kirk quietly. “But we can make sure by paying a short visit to the apartment house.”
“Now?”
“There is no time like the present.”
And so the end of a half hour found them stepping out of a cab at the extreme west end of the city. It was only a little after , but the streets were almost deserted; the arc-lamps clicked and hissed lonesomely; rows of darkened windows and shadowy doorways ran away on both sides.
“There is the place we want,” said the investigator, pointing at an illuminated sign which hung out over the sidewalk some little distance away.
When they reached the place, they found it was rather a large building of the modern type; pushing open the swinging doors and making their way through a brilliantly lighted passage, they found themselves in an equally brilliant office.
Here they saw a dozen or more men seated in tilted chairs; all wore their hats and for the most part smoked cigars. Behind a polished counter on which rested a nickeled cash register and a huge book, stood a white-haired man with a smooth Irish face and a pair of gold eyeglasses hanging by a black cord. The air was heavy with disputation; long-tailed words boomed sonorously; red-faced and earnest, one of the occupants of the chairs assailed the man behind the counter; with soft, sweeping, eloquent gestures the latter defended himself.
“And what,” demanded he, placing his hands upon the shining top of the counter and shoving his head forward inquiringly, “is all this that we do be hearing about your suffragette? Who is she? What is she? The newspapers are filled to the top with her, but sorra the sight of her did I ever see. If she has any existence outside of the comic supplement, gentlemen, I’d like to have ye show me where. Did ye ever hear a whisper of her till she began to send herself by registered mail and chain herself to lamp posts? Niver the one of ye! Is your wife a suffragette? She’s not. Is your mother? No. Your sister? Again it’s no. Then who is it that composes the great army of female ballot seekers? Is it the cook? The chambermaid? The woman that does the plain sewing? I’ll wager ’tis not. They have too much to do already; it’s not looking for additional burdens they are. Then where does this advanced woman flourish and have her being?” Here one hand went up and descended with a slap. “In the mansions of the rich,” he declaimed positively; “in the lap of luxury. Among the feminine descendants of successful gum shoe men!”
Here the man with the flushed face attempted to speak; but an eloquent sweep of both hands silenced him.
“They have nothing to do,” stated the orator, “but to invent ways of pleasing themselves. Monkey dinner parties, diamonds, automobiles and boxes on the grand tier have no more attraction; private yachts and other women’s husbands have grown passé. They want a new toy, and faith, nothing will please them but the destinies of the nation. Their reasoning is simple and direct. If a man who wheels scrap iron at a blast furnace is competent to handle the—”
At this point the speaker was interrupted by Ashton-Kirk advancing to the counter.
“Pardon me,” said the investigator, “but can you tell me where I can find Mr. Tobin? Is he in?”
A look of great dignity came upon the face of the other; and he drew himself up stiffly.
“You are speaking to him, sir,” replied he.
“I thought so,” smiled Ashton-Kirk. “My old friend Dan O’Connor has mentioned you so often that I felt sure that I recognized the manner.”
The dignity vanished from Mr. Tobin’s face, and the stiffness of demeanor fell from him instantly.
“Do you know Dan?” asked he, eagerly. “Ah, there is the lad for you. A credit to his country and to his name. Faith, he is the best judge of whiskey in the city, and has a heart as large and as mellow as a barrel of it.”
“If it would not be putting you about in any way, we’d like a few moments in private with you.”
At once Mr. Tobin touched a button. A young man presented himself, and to him the conducting of the house was transferred for the time being. Then the two friends were led into a small sitting-room, where chairs were placed for them, and Mr. Tobin seated himself opposite them with some expectation.
“Since I became manager here,” explained he, “I seldom hear of any of the old lads. Ye see, it’s so far from the center of the city,” regretfully, “they seldom get along this way, so they do.”
“Yes, I suppose they cling to their old haunts,” said Ashton-Kirk. “Dan sticks to his school of boxing these days, pretty closely. I often drop in for a round or two with him. He’s
