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“Old beast!” muttered Mrs. Holt. “It’s disgusting to be so rich that you can do as you please.”

But for this remark, delivered as the ladle fell with a clatter on the empty soup-plate, the first course was disposed of amidst profound silence. No one dared to talk except as the master led, and the master was taking the edge off his appetite.

The soup was removed and a lavish dinner laid on the table. Dr. Webster sacrificed his rigid economic tenets at the kitchen door, but there was no rejoicing in the hearts of the guests. They groaned in spirit as they contemplated the amount they should be forced to consume at one of the clock.

The doctor carved the turkeys into generous portions, ate his, then began to talk.

“Cleveland will be re-elected,” he announced dictatorially. “Do you hear? Harrison has no show at all. What say?” His shaggy brows rushed together. He had detected a faint murmur of dissent. “Did you say he wouldn’t, John Holt?”

“No, no,” disclaimed Mr. Holt, who was a scarlet Republican. “Cleveland will be re-elected beyond a doubt.”

“Well, if I hear of any of you voting for Harrison! I suppose you think I can’t find out what ticket you vote! But I’ll find out, sirs. Mark my words, Holt, if you vote the Republican ticket–“

He stopped ominously and brought his teeth together with a vicious click. Holt raised his wine-glass nervously. The doctor held his note to a considerable amount.

“The Republican party is dead–dead as a door-nail,” broke in an unctuous voice. A stout man with a shrewd time-serving face leaned forward. “Don’t let it give you a thought, doctor. What do you think of the prospects for wheat?”

“Never better, never better. They say the Northern crops will fail, but it’s a lie. They can’t fail. You needn’t worry, Meeker. Don’t pull that long face, sir; I don’t like it.”

“The reports are not very encouraging,” began a man of bile and nerves and melancholy mien. “And this early rain–“

“Don’t contradict me, sir,” cried Webster. “I say they can’t fail. They haven’t failed for eight years. Why should they fail now?”

“No reason at all, sir–no reason at all,” replied the victim, hurriedly. “It does me good to hear your prognostications.”

“I hear there is a slight rise in Con. Virginia,” interposed Mrs. Holt, who had cultivated tact.

“Nonsense!” almost shouted the tyrant. The heavy silver fork of the Morenos fell to his plate with a crash. “The mine’s as rotten as an old lung. There isn’t a handful of decent ore left in her. No more clodhoppers ‘ll get rich out of that mine. You haven’t been investing, have you?” His ferret eyes darted from one face to another. “If you have, don’t you ever darken my doors again! I don’t approve of stock-gambling, and you know it.”

The guests, one and all, assured him that not one of their hard-earned dollars had gone to the stock-market.

“Great Scott!” murmured the youth to Miss Williams; “is this the way he always goes on? Have these people no self-respect?”

“They’re used to him. This sort of thing has gone on ever since I came here. You see he has made this lake the most aristocratic part of the city, so that it gives one great social importance to live here; and as he won’t sell the houses, they have to let him trample on their necks, and he loves to do that better than he loves his money. But that is not the only reason. They hope he will leave them those houses when he dies. They certainly deserve that he should. For years, before they owned carriages, they would tramp through wind and rain every Sunday in winter to play billiards with him, to say nothing of the hot days of summer. They have eaten this mid-day dinner that they hate time out of mind. They have listened to his interminable yarns, oft repeated, about early California. In all these years they have never contradicted him, not once. They thought he’d die long ago, and now they’re under his heel, and they couldn’t get up and assert themselves if they tried. All they can do is to abuse him behind his back.”