sene lamps hung from big nails on the wall. Three doors opened upon the landing at the top where several men stood smoking. From all about came the low growl of men’s voices, and the din of women’s pitched high and toned with nervous repression. The large front room, where the two men who worked the lantern were the centre of attention, was filled with friends of Roger and the committee. Through another door Valerie caught a glimpse of a supper table, of baskets and piles of sandwiches, of coffee urns, of cases of bottles, of long rows of cheap tumblers, and of a number of those devoted women satellites who are always ready to get their little thrill on such occasions by being what they call “the faithful few.”
The men on the landing swept aside for Valerie and Jimmy who swung open the third door and plunged head-first into a little room—the real centre of Dargaville that night.
Sitting at a table facing the door were Bob and Roger Benton, with large blank sheets of paper and a small pile of unimportant messages in front of them. Standing about were Bolton and Allison and other members of the committee, two prominent sheep owners, and several of the biggest Massey supporters from near-by towns. Valerie looked for George Rhodes, and then remembered that he was watchdog for Roger at the registrar’s office. So far Mrs. Benton and other women privileged to enter here had not come in. The people now in this inner sanctum were all swayed by anticipative excitement.
Bob seized the batch from Jimmy’s hand, instantly perceived the plain envelope, dropped the others and tore it open.
“Here it is,” he said, and a dead silence followed.
Jimmy meanwhile, realizing his business, had shot back through the door and closed it behind him.
