AT THE BAT!"

* * * * *

"NO MORE NONSENSE."

* * * * *

"HE PUTS MAGUIRE OUT ON THIRD BASE."

* * * * *

"NOW PLAY BALL!"

And unintelligible as this latter sounds, it was near enough the truth
to suggest inspiration. But there is no need to reprint the article that
followed, for now it is possible, for the first time, to tell what
actually occurred; and this contribution should alone permit this work
to rank, as no doubt it is otherwise fully qualified to, in the dullest
class of all books, that of the historical novel.

The facts are, that Peter alighted from a hansom one evening, in the
middle of July, and went into the Manhattan Club. He exchanged greetings
with a number of men in the halls, and with more who came in while he
was reading the evening papers. A man came up to him while he still
read, and said:

"Well, Stirling. Reading about your own iniquity?"

"No," said Peter, rising and shaking hands. "I gave up reading about
that ten years ago. Life is too short."

"Pelton and Webber were checking their respectability in the coat-room,
as I came up. I suppose they are in the cafe."

Peter said nothing, but turned, and the two entered that room. Peter
shook hands with three men who were there, and they all drew up round
one of the little tables. A good many men who saw that group, nudged
each other, and whispered remarks.

"A reporter from the _Sun_ is in the strangers' room. Mr. Stirling, and
asks to see you," said a servant.

"I cannot see him," said Peter, quietly. "But say to him that I may
possibly have something to tell him about eleven o'clock."

The four men at the table exchanged glances.

"I can't imagine a newspaper getting an interview out of you, Stirling,"
laughed one of them a little nervously.

Peter smiled. "Very few of us are absolutely consistent. I can't imagine
any of you, for instance, making a political mistake but perhaps you may
some day."

A pause of a curious kind came after this, which was only interrupted by
the arrival of three more men. They all shook hands, and Peter rang a
bell.

"What shall it be?" he asked.

There was a moment's hesitation, and then one said. "Order for us.
You're host. Just what you like."

Peter smiled. "Thomas," he said, "bring us eight Apollinaris cocktails."

The men all laughed, and Thomas said, "Beg pardon, Mr.