One of Sprague's lieutenants, Randolph, began an impetuous speech,

shaking his fist and a mass of disordered hair at Rankin. The chairman,

however, mauled the desk with his gavel, and did not wait for quiet to

say:

"I'll interduce to you your temp'rary chairman, Judge Zephaniah P.

Bailey o' Mason County."

The man who, having awaited Rankin's announcement at the foot of the

three steps that led to the rostrum, now took the gavel from him, was

tall, and thin and spare. He had walked from the side to the center of

his stage with splay-footed steps, and now he stood, bent awkwardly,

almost helplessly, over the desk. He was dressed in gray, ill-fitting

clothes, his ready-made coat hanging from his bony shoulders with that

loose absence of identity which characterizes the garment fashioned for

the type rather than for the individual. A standing collar, wide open

in front, disclosed a protruding larynx; about the collar was knotted

a stringy cravat of black. His hair was low parted on the left side,

and hung in a great plume over the right temple. But the man showed

in the face, a face smooth shaven, long and firm, with its heavy jaw,

pointed chin, and level lips cut straight as the eyebrows that shadowed

his eyes. And it was the eyes that marked and inspired the face. Small

they were, and half closed, so that at first glance they seemed sleepy,

yet when they opened they could flash sparks from a bright, determined

mind. But always they showed uncommon shrewdness, and a knowledge of

common people and common things, and now and then they twinkled with

the keen, dry humor sleeping in the brain that lay behind them. It

was beginning to be observed within the confines of his own county,

Mason, that Zeph Bailey looked like Abraham Lincoln, a resemblance

much prized and sometimes cultivated by the Illinois politician, with

whom the physical resemblance too often suffices for the moral. Judge

Bailey, however, was too independent to care to resemble any other

man, even such a man as Lincoln. He had already had a term as county

judge of Mason, had been a member of the lower House at Springfield,

and was again a candidate for the Legislature, with ambitions, it was

understood, to be Speaker. There was about this man, strange, silent,

uncouth and awkward in appearance, that mysterious thing called

personal magnetism, beloved of politicians, even beyond the boundaries

of Illinois, above any resemblance to Lincoln, and this magnetism was

shown the minute he appeared, for the delegates were silent; they

raised their eyes to him, and the strange spell of his personality

began to play upon them.

Rankin, who had instantly removed his coat on leaving the rostrum,

and seated himself in the front row of delegates, though not yet with

his fellows from Polk, turned to the man beside him and whispered,

prophetically, reader of men that he was:

"You want to look out fer Zeph Bailey--he's a comin' man--smart 's a

singed cat."

Rankin's comparison seemed to appeal to his neighbor, who did not know

how commonly it was employed in Bailey's own home, and he nodded his

instant appreciation.

"Looks like he had lumbago in the back," the man added. He was a DeWitt

County delegate far removed from the limits to which Bailey's fame at

that time had spread. And Rankin whispered back:

"Well, if he has, it must pain him considerable, fer his back bone runs

clear down to his heels."

Bailey still stood there, bent painfully, and remained silent. The hand

at the end of a thin wrist that had never known a linen cuff, held the

gavel at an awkward angle, but an observer would have noticed that the

handle was firm in his fist, and that when it fell, an instant later,

it fell with sharp, stern blows, not upon its edge, but full upon its

poll, sure sign that a strong man is in the chair.

"The convention--will be--in order."

He spoke in a sharp, penetrating voice, his words falling strangely

into couplets, and then his thin lips closed firmly again. Hale had

come forward and taken his seat at the old bow-legged table where

the clerk of the court usually sat, and this act of his seemed to

personalize the action of Rankin in seizing the whole temporary

organization, and so maddened the Sprague men afresh. They had been

willing to tolerate Bailey, partly because of his strange popularity,

partly because of the recognized precedent that supported Rankin

in naming the temporary chairman. There were precedents for such a

selection of a temporary secretary, also, as there were precedents for

almost everything in the Thirteenth District, but they had expected a

test vote on the selection of that officer, and they felt strong then

and willing that the issue be joined. When they saw how they had been

balked, they were angry, and they vented that anger by shouting at Hale

to come away, and now and then they turned their personalities upon

Rankin, who only smiled, as if he beheld his work and found it very

good.

Bailey cast his inscrutable little eye around the assemblage, and then

rapped with his gavel. His thin lips moved, and men saw that he was

going to speak. Those who knew him ceased to make noise, not liking to

miss anything Zeph Bailey might say. In this desire, they pulled at

their neighbors and said:

"Sh! sh! He's going to say something."

In the partial quiet they were thus enabled to produce, Bailey drawled:

"If the brethren--will be--seated--another opportunity--will be

afforded them--to rise--for prayers--at a later stage--of the revival."

The tense quality of the situation was dissipated in a laugh, though

all the possibilities hung undischarged, electrically, in the hot

atmosphere. A moment longer Bailey waited and then he began his speech.

While he spoke, he stood stooped over the desk, holding on to his

gavel. He spoke all the way through in those sharp couplets of words,

slowly wrought out. He bowed to custom only long enough to make the

usual adjurations to the delegates to discharge their high duties

faithfully, and he bestowed the customary partisan praise on the state

administration and on the national administration. There was applause

of course, which he endured calmly, bent over the desk, waiting for

it to end. But when these formalities had been observed, he talked to

them of common things, like the heat and the corn crop, and he made

jokes about the distilleries that lined the Illinois River, and at his

solemn sarcasms the crowd laughed.

Rankin was in high good humor. He had found a new man, and his

beginning augured well for the success of the convention. When Judge

Bailey stopped, there were cries of "Go on! go on!"

But the Singed Cat rapped instantly with his gavel and said:

"The convention--again--will be--in order."

And the speech was done.

"Gentlemen," he said, "what is--the further pleasure--of the

convention?"

The judge uttered this formality with all parliamentary deference, and

the twinkle deep hidden in his eyes showed that the irony of it was

apparent to him, even if it was lost on the delegates.

The spell of his quaint oratory having been broken, instantly there was

a shuffling of boots, and a dozen men sprang to their feet.

"Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!" they chorused.

But Bailey's eyes, having lost the twinkle they had had when he asked

the pleasure of the convention, now sought the type-written program

lying on the desk before him, that he might be sure of Rankin's

pleasure. And then, his eyes traveling from one to another of the many

flushed faces that opened upon him, their cold gleam unerringly rested

upon James of the Polk County delegation, and Bailey said:

"The gentleman--from Polk."

"Mr. Chairman," said James, hurriedly, "I move that a committee on

credentials of seven members, one from each county, be selected."

"How shall--the committee--be appointed?" inquired the chair. Rankin

glared rebukingly at James, and arose to go to him. He detected the

chance of blunder whereby all his plans might go wrong.

"By the chair," he growled at James.

"By the chair," James repeated.

"Second the motion!" all the Garwood men yelled.

Randolph was on his feet.

"Mr. Chairman!" he cried, "I move you, sir, as a substitute--"

Randolph was ever parliamentary, but Bailey rapped him to order with

the gager's mallet as if he had been a mere disturbing child, and said:

"The gentleman--from Polk; seconded by the gentleman from Tazewell,

moves--that a committee--on credentials--consisting--of one

delegate--from each county--be appointed--by the chair. As many--as

favour--the motion--will say--"

"Mr. Chairman!" Randolph was advancing toward the desk with uplifted

arm, his face was very red and already streaming with perspiration.

"Mr. Chairman!" he yelled. "It has always been the custom in this

district for the delegates to retire by counties and to select their

own members for each committee. I move you, sir, as a substitute--"

"The gentleman--from Moultrie," drawled Bailey, "is out--of order.

Those of you--who favor--the motion--of the gentleman from Polk--will

say--'Aye.'"

A mighty chorus of "Ayes!" swelled up from the mass of delegates.

"Those opposed--'No.'"

Another heavy, deep-throated volume of "Noes" burst forth. Instantly

Bailey swung his heavy gavel to his ear, and he said, though still in

that deliberate way of his:

"The ayes--_seem_--to have it, the ayes--have it, and the motion is

adopted."

Then his gavel fell. And as the storm broke upon him, he stood with the

weak stoop in his back, and looked down on the three score and more

of angry men who were howling at him. His face never showed sign of

emotion, but with his small eyes blinking slowly, his thin lips closed,

he looked at them, and then began a slow, monotonous, persistent tap,

tap, tap of the gavel.

"The convention--_again_--will be--in order," he drawled, tapping with

his gavel all the while. "The convention--_again_--will be--in order."

At last the storm wore out, and Randolph, and two or three of his men

gathered in a little knot. After they had held their disheveled heads

together in counsel for awhile, Randolph raised his hand, and hushed

his delegates, and said, when he had stilled the clamor:

"Let 'em alone. It'll come out all right. We've got the votes."

Bailey meanwhile had ceased to tap, and now stood leaning on the

gavel. He began to speak again:

"The chair--appoints," he said, his eye leaving his program and seeking

the men he designated as members of the committee, "Messrs. James of

Polk, White of Logan, Kemper of Mason, Brown of Tazewell, Harrington of

DeWitt, Parker of Moultrie, and Johnson of Piatt."

All save Harrington, Parker and Johnson were Garwood men. The program

was then followed, in choosing by the same process, the committees

on resolutions and on permanent organization. There too the Garwood

men were given the majority, though Bailey ignored Rankin's program

in one instance, and that was in naming Randolph for the committee on

resolutions, but he did it in some half humorous notion of his own

that Randolph could there gratify his love for words, and do little

harm. The Garwood men were not particular about the resolutions,

though Rankin gave to Ben Fuller, Polk County's representative on the

committee, a copy of the platform Garwood had written out.

Noon had come, and was pouring its heat into the court room. The

committees having been chosen, the convention could do nothing more

until they reported. Bailey therefore said:

"What is--the _further_--pleasure--of the convention?"

And Rankin arose.

"Mr. Chairman," he said, "I move that we take a recess until two

o'clock."

Bailey put the motion and of course it carried. And then he said:

"And the convention--stands adjourned--until two o'clock this

afternoon--at which hour--the riot--will be--resumed."

His gavel fell.

As he was descending from the platform, Rankin rushed heavily toward

him, and at the same instant, Randolph also started for him. Before

Rankin could congratulate him, Randolph was talking.

"Look here, Zeph, and you, too, Jim," he began in that curious

inofficial tone which men use when their relations become personal

again, "we demand a vote on this permanent organization business. We

ain't going to be shut out altogether."

"Don't like my presiding, eh?" asked Bailey.

"Oh, I'd like it all right if it was on my side," Randolph laughed,

"but we demand a vote."

"Oh, you'll get a vote, Hal," Rankin remarked, "all the vote you want

'fore you're through--eh, Zeph?"

"I always aim to treat every one fairly," answered Bailey.

Randolph looked at him, "Aw, come off!" he said, helplessly.

XI

The convention assembled at two o'clock, though with the only

conspicuous deliberation that our deliberative bodies display, it was

half-past two before Judge Bailey brought it to order by a crack of

his gavel. The sun had seemed to hang still on the meridian. The white

cloud that had mounded itself on the horizon in the early morning had

slowly and majestically inflated all the day, until it covered the

whole of the western sky, where it flashed in the focalized rays of the

sun. Far down at the base of the pile of cloud, an ominous blackness

was spreading, so that the farmers of the various delegations, trudging

along the sidewalks toward the court house, with their waistcoats

unfastened and their coats on their arms, prophesied rain, and, drawn

out of the differences of factional feeling into the brotherhood of

husbandry, they welcomed it with reciprocal felicitations for the

common good it would do their corn. When they reached the court house,

the heat was stifling; the day seemed to stand still with the sun, and

the air they breathed fairly scorched their nostrils.

The report of the committee on credentials was received; there were

no contests. The report of the committee on resolutions was read, and

the platform, in the wider partisanship that momentarily swallowed

up factionalism, applauded. And then Jim Rankin read the report of the

committee on permanent organization. The report recommended that the

temporary organization be made permanent.

The sun and the day had seemed to stop, now time itself paused, for the

moment had come. The fanning delegates stiffened in their hard chairs

and became silent. The heavy air hung heavier still with suspense. The

sun, flaming in through the tall western windows of the old court room,

fell upon the worn boards of the floor till they smoked faintly and

seemed likely to ignite under the pitiless fire.

Rankin stood in the very front, near the chairman's desk, his coat

off, his hair curled close and shining with the perspiration that

glistened on brow and face. He took his cigar from his lips and raised

his big arm in its moist shirt sleeve, toward Bailey, who leaned

wearily, almost sleepily, over the desk. Rankin's heavy voice broke the

stillness.

"Mr. Chairman!" he said, "I move the adoption of the report."

Randolph meanwhile had arisen slowly, carefully, as if he feared any

noise he made would mar the situation.

"The gentleman--from Polk," drawled Bailey, as if the whole thing

wearied him, "seconded--by the gentleman--from--ah--Tazewell, moves the

adoption--of the--report. Aire you ready--for the--"

"Mr. Chairman," said Randolph, heavily and deliberately, "Mr.

Chairman," he repeated, knotting his brows under the mane that hung

down to meet them.

"The gentleman--from Moultrie," sighed Bailey.

The delegates leaned forward, intent in their surprise that Bailey had

even recognized the Sprague leader.

"Mr. Speaker," said Randolph, "I mean Mr. Chairman, I move you, sir,

as a substitute for the report of the committee just presented, the

following resolution, which I ask the clerk to read."

His use of the words "speaker" and "clerk" was to show the effect of

legislative habit.

Bailey only leaned a little farther over his desk, and then drawled:

"The chair--will state--to the gentleman--from Moultrie that it is not

now--in order----"

Two or three men behind Randolph rose halfway to their feet, protest

written in their faces, but without turning his head, or taking his

eyes from the chairman, Randolph fluttered his hand at them behind his

back and they subsided. It was plain from his manner that this was a

play for position so delicate, that they must not risk disturbing it by

interrupting their leader. So Bailey continued: "For the gentleman--to

present--such a resolution."

"But, Mr. Speaker," began Randolph.

"The chair--will add--for the information--of the gentleman--from

Moultrie," Bailey continued, "that--the only thing--in order--at this

time--would be--a minority report--and a motion--to substitute it, or,

again, a motion--to lay the report--on the table."

"But, Mr. Chairman," once more began Randolph, stepping carefully

into the aisle, "my resolution is in the very nature of a minority

report. The chair will remember the ruling of Speaker Haines in the

Thirty-fourth General Assembly--" He was taking higher ground by thus

referring to mysteries known only to him and the chairman. But Bailey

interrupted him.

"The chair--is acquainted--with the precedent--to which--the

gentleman--refers, and is--of the opinion--that it does--not

properly--apply--in this instance."

The delegates listened with rapt attention. It was not often that in

their rude, free conventions they had such parliamentary fine play

as this, and they forgot the heat and the contest to enjoy their own

bewilderment at it. Rankin still stood and smoked in unconcern. He knew

he could safely leave Randolph to Bailey.

"And therefore--the motion--of the gentleman--from Moultrie--is out--of

order." As Bailey let his gavel fall, he jerked his head toward Rankin

in signal, and then as the big man heaved himself near, he leaned

over the desk to whisper to him. Bailey's very action in leaning over

the desk, in removing his eyes from his adversary, in letting the

convention for a moment slip his grasp, as it were, was audacious.

Randolph, again repressing his followers by the flutter of his hand,

smiled with satisfaction. He took a step farther down the aisle.

"Then, Mr. Chairman," he said, "I appeal from the decision of the

chair."

And immediately his following, glad at last of a chance to do something

to save the nation and the day, shouted:

"Second the motion!"

Bailey continued to whisper to Rankin a minute longer, then

straightened himself, and looked over the convention. Rankin was

examining the end of his cigar, and seemed intent on repairing it, for

it had been smoking unevenly and threatening to come apart, as campaign

cigars do.

"The gentleman--from Moultrie," drawled Bailey at last, "appeals--from

the decision--of the chair, and the appeal--is seconded--by the

gentleman--from--ah--was it Piatt?" The humorous twinkle leaped in

Bailey's eye. Those of the delegates gifted with a sense of humor,

remembering the roar of a moment before, laughed. Randolph, who had a

career in politics before him, and hence was without that sense, was

waiting in the aisle, taking himself seriously. That Bailey, as was

plain by his manner, had not so taken him, was a source of chagrin to

him and a wound to his pride, for he and Bailey had served together, he

reflected, in the House! And then Bailey's awful deliberation maddened

him.

"The question, therefore," Bailey resumed, "is, Shall the decision--of

the chair--stand as the decision--of the convention?"

He paused and glanced over the assemblage, and Rankin, having gone back

to his place in the Polk County delegation, was now standing with his

arm outstretched toward the chair. Presently Bailey's eye roved to

where Rankin stood, and Rankin said, in the low tones that betoken an

understanding with the presiding officer:

"Mr. Chairman."

"The gentleman--from Polk."

"Mr. Chairman, I move to lay the appeal on the table."

"The gentleman--from Polk," said Bailey, "seconded--by the

gentleman--from Mason--moves to lay--the appeal--on the table. Aire

you ready--for the question? As many--as favor--the motion--will

vote--'Aye'----"

A great volume of "Ayes" rolled from the throats of the Garwood

delegates, while the Sprague delegates began to cry:

"Roll-call! Roll-call! Roll-call!"

Randolph had advanced down the aisle until he was opposite Rankin. His

mane was tossing savagely, his face was aflame and as he shook his fist

at Bailey his lips moved rapidly, though his hot words were lost in

the general din. All the while Bailey calmly looked on, and kept up a

careless tap, tap, tapping with his gavel. The spectators who had hung

in the rear of the court room pressed forward among the delegates.

Randolph approached to the very desk and shook his fist under Bailey's

imperturbable, long nose.

"You promised us a roll-call, and you've got to be fair and give us a

show! If you don't, damn you, I'll----"

Bailey hung far over the desk now and said in his drawl:

"Hal Randolph, you damned--little sucker--you, if you don't go--sit

down--and behave yourself--I'll have--to lam--you one--with this

mallet."

And then he calmly resumed his tapping. After awhile, his persistence

won silence, and he slowly wriggled in his ill-fitting garments as if

they were really as uncomfortable as they looked.

"The convention--again--will be--in order," he said.

Randolph assisted in quieting his band.

"If the convention--will permit--the chair--will explain--the

parliamentary situation--in which--the convention--now finds itself."

He paused and silence hung again upon his words.

"The gentleman--from Polk--presented--a report--from the

committee--on permanent organization--and moved--its adoption. The

gentleman--from--ah--Moultrie--then offered--a resolution. That

resolution--the chair--declared--to be--out of order. Thereupon

the gentleman--from Moultrie--appealed--from the decision--of the

chair. That appeal--the gentleman--from Polk--moved--to lay--upon

the table. The question, therefore, recurs--upon the motion--of the

gentleman--from Polk--to table--the appeal. Upon that question--the

yeas and nays--or, rather, a roll-call--of the delegations--has

been--demanded. Those of you--who favor--the motion--that is, those

of you--who favor--tabling the appeal--and the adoption--of the

report--of the committee on permanent organization--will vote--'Aye,'

and those--opposed--will vote--'No'--upon the polling--of your

respective--delegations, and the secretary--will call--the roll--of the

counties."

The gavel fell, and Randolph turned, smiling complacently as one who

had already won his fight.

"Vote No!" he called to simplify the issue for his men.

And Rankin shouted:

"Vote Aye, boys; vote Aye."

The delegations gathering in little groups were polled amid a hum

of busy interest. Bailey had seated himself and looked with sleepy

unconcern down on the mass of men, tearing up their little slips of

paper and dropping them in the black slouch hats of southern Illinois.

Once he moved, and beckoned to him a man from his own delegation, and

cast his ballot with the Mason fellows. At last the hats were reposing

between knees, the ballots were counted. Bailey slowly arose.

"Have you all voted?" he asked. The silence acquiesced.

"The secretary--will call--the roll--of the counties." And then

intensity hung again in the air. Hale called off the names of the

counties.

"DeWitt?"

"Eighteen votes No!"

"Logan?"

"Thirteen votes Aye, eleven votes No."

The Sprague men clapped their hands.

"Mason?"

"Eighteen votes _Aye!_!"

Randolph turned and knit his brows. Then he smiled again. He was

keeping tab on his knee.

"Moultrie?"

"Fifteen--N-o-o!"

"Piatt?"

"Fifteen votes No!"

"Polk?"

The silence was absolute. Rankin and Pusey had been wrangling. Pusey

announced the vote.

"Twenty-two Yeas and twenty-three Nays."

There was cheering from the Sprague men and the gavel cracked.

"Tazewell?"

"Thirty votes--_Aye!_" shouted Carlin, one of Joe Hale's men, drawing

out the affirmative unctuously. He was thinking of Joe's job.

Then, while the convention awaited the result, Hale figured painfully.

Rankin stepped up to help him. The Sprague men howled an objection and

Randolph advanced to a place near the secretary. But Hale figured under

the shelter of his palm. When he had done, he handed the slip up to the

chairman. Bailey examined it attentively an instant, a long instant,

then the convention grew impatient and cried:

"Give it to us! Give it to us!"

Bailey waited, again studying the slip. And at last, holding it in his

fingers, he said:

"On this vote--the Yeas aire--eighty-three, and the Nays--aire

eighty-two, and the motion--"

Randolph was standing in the aisle, his finger poised, his lips apart,

his eyes blazing. His face glowed with a delight he could not conceal

as he cried:

"Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman! A point of order!"

Bailey paused and looked at him inquiringly.

"Well," he said, wearily, "the gentleman--may state--his point of

order."

Again the silence, again the interest in this fencing between the two

parliamentarians.

"My point of order, Mr. Chairman, is this:" Randolph kept his

forefinger in its parliamentary poise. "The delegation from Mason

County cast eighteen votes in the affirmative."

Bailey nodded.

"And I believe, Mr. Chairman," Randolph went on, taking his time, that

he might uncover his point slowly and thus make it the more effective

in the end, "that the chair is a member of the Mason County delegation."

"The gentleman--is eminently--correct," said Bailey.

"Then, Mr. Chairman," said Randolph, raising his voice for his climax,

"as the chair's delegation cast its full vote, the chair evidently

voted on this proposition, and the chair is not entitled to a vote on

an appeal from his own decision. With the vote the chair improperly

cast eliminated, the result would be a tie, and therefore the motion

would not prevail. Hence my point of order; which amounts to a

challenge of the chair's vote."

The Sprague men began to laugh uproariously, and to applaud while

Randolph stood in the aisle in his statesmanlike attitude, enjoying his

triumph. And as their laugh began to subside Bailey's face wrinkled

into a strange annoying smile. His little eyes twinkled.

"The gentleman--from Moultrie--is correct," he began. And there

was a shout. He indulged it to the echo, and then went on:

"But unfortunately--for the gentleman--from Moultrie, however

fortunately--for the chair, this is not--a vote--on an appeal,

but--on a motion--to lay--an appeal--on the table. The chair, if not

misinformed, has the right--to vote--on all motions--to table;--and

on this motion--the chair--votes 'Aye,' the motion prevails, and the

appeal--is laid--on the table!"

He swung the gavel up and let it fall, and the Garwood men began to

cheer. Randolph looked dazed, and was about to speak. But Bailey,

striking order again with his gavel, went on:

"The question--now recurs--upon the motion--of the gentleman--from

Polk--that the report--of the committee--be adopted. As many--as

favor--the motion--will say--'Aye.'"

There was a mighty shout, "Aye!"

"As many--as are opposed--will vote--'No!'"

The Sprague men yelled "No!"--an equal volume.

"The ayes--seem--to have it," said Bailey, "the ayes--have it, and the

motion--prevails."

The gavel fell. The Sprague men sat dumb.

"And the temporary--organization--therefore becomes--the permanent

organization--of this convention," said Bailey, speaking as if he were

merely resuming some sentence that all the confusion of balloting had

interrupted, an interruption to him of no more importance than the

pauses he made in his words. Thus the Garwood men secured the control

of the convention and won the first round.

XII

The sun poured its rays now on a dead level through the unwashed glass

of the western windows; the dust beaten out of the old floor by the

stamping feet of Garwood's successful cohorts quivered in its beams.

The storm, promised early in the afternoon, had inconsequently vanished

after some unvindicated mutterings of its prophetic thunder, and left

the town hotter than ever. The air was oppressed with heavy humidity,

and the farmer delegates, dreaming vaguely of their corn, beheld it

drying in the heat, rattling its yellow leaves. In the crowded court

room the delegates languished in their shirt sleeves, the collars of

those who still wore collars, wilted into moist and shapeless masses

at their throats. The fight had beaten the life out of them, even

those who were radiant in victory. Some one, a Sprague man, moved

an adjournment. But Rankin frowned and shouted, "No, no," to his

followers. He had just then an advantage he did not care to lose. And

so, when the motion was put, the Singed Cat, glancing at the solemn

judicial clock and seeing that two hours of the afternoon yet remained,

declared it defeated, and then he drawled:

"Nominations--of candidates--for representative--in Congress--aire

now--in order."

When he had said this, he seemed glad to sit down, though he alone

of all the others was unperturbed by that awful heat, and wore his

ill-fitting coat as though he would preserve the decorum of the

occasion, as Napoleon, for example to his men, wore his uniform

buttoned to the chin while he led them across the hot sands of Egypt.

The tired and exhausted delegates settled down gloomily to hear the

nominating speeches. Some of them showed an intention of slipping out

of the court room, lured by thought of the cooling drafts of beer in

the saloons that presented their fronts eagerly to the very face of

the temple of Tazewell County justice, but the bosses of either side,

fearing some advantage might be taken of their absence, held them to

their posts. And so they listened to the impassioned speech into which

Randolph was able to work himself in placing in nomination the name of

"that profound jurist, that able statesman, that honest man, Conrad

Sprague!"

Then followed Dorsey, whom Rankin had chosen for the honor of naming

his candidate. Every one knew of course whom Dorsey was presenting,

and yet he treasured his name as a hidden surprise for his closing

sentence; in which he epitomized him as "the tall Sycamore of the

Sangamon, whose eloquence still reverberates in the halls of national

legislation, whose fame is growing brighter and fairer as the days

go by, in honoring whom the people of the Thirteenth District,

representing as it does the pride and glory of central Illinois, are

but honoring themselves--that champion of popular rights, that man of

the common people, our present representative, the Honorable Jerome B.

Garwood!"

There were speeches seconding these nominations, and applause following

them, carefully apportioned by the supporters of each, and then when

all had done, when every one thought the last word had been spoken,

when the Singed Cat had arisen, leaned over the desk and inquired:

"Aire there--any other--or further--nominations?"

Grant Knowlton of Lincoln arose and said:

"Mr. Chairman."

Because it was unexpected, the common phrase fell upon their ears with

a dramatic force. The delegates scraped about to face the new speaker.

"The gentleman--from Logan," said the Singed Cat.

"Mr. Chairman," Knowlton began, "and gentlemen of the convention: Old

Logan brings you from her ripening corn fields, from her sun-kissed

prairies, from her populous towns, the name of her favorite son.

She comes, Mr. Chairman, bringing you a man who ranks foremost in

the affections of the citizens of the thriving city which the great

Emancipator himself laid off with his own chain and compass, that now

repose as honored relics in his hallowed tomb in Springfield, the town

to which he gave his own name, who has never sought the consideration

of his neighbors but has always had it; who stands to-day among her

leading men, who, in the great hour of national peril when the skies

were dark, went forth to help strike the shackles from the bleeding

limbs of four millions of human beings, who has since served his

country equally as well if in an humbler capacity."

Knowlton poured forth his sentences so rapidly that the delegates

scarce could follow them, and filled with curiosity as they were, they

could not determine from his mixed relatives whether he was about to

nominate Abraham Lincoln himself, or some man of a later, and if not an

abler, at least a livelier generation. The young lawyer felt that he

had at last his opportunity, and he was seizing it. He had cleared a

space among the chairs about him, and in this he strode back and forth,

waving his arms, and shaking his head so fiercely that his black locks

flapped, and his face became a mere red blur. The young man had a deep

resonant voice, and its tones vibrating to his own passion thrilled

at last the hearts of the men who listened, a physical manifestation

in which is to be found doubtless the success of much oratory. So he

was kept on fire by cheers. But at last, the curiosity to know who was

this new Richmond in the field, as Charlie Cowley called him in his

despatches the next morning, this new Richmond who took them by such

surprise and so thoroughly destroyed their calculations, grew beyond

mastery, and the youth's periods were marred by cries of:

"Name him! Name him!"

The interruption did not fluster the young orator. Men all about him

were straining to catch the first accents of the name of this dark

horse from Logan County, farther away old men placed their hands

behind their ears to aid their hearing, still farther off delegates

leaned anxiously forward, with brows knit in a painful intensity. Young

Knowlton took it all as a tribute to his oratory, and his really fine

voice, a voice that would carry any man far in public speaking, rolled

to the ceiling of the old court room. The Singed Cat alone remained

impassive and cold. Rankin and Randolph stood and hung on his words,

trouble written in their faces. But Knowlton was exhausting himself.

His deep voice grew husky, the perspiration streamed from his face, his

breath came in a vapor from his mouth, hot as the atmosphere was. At

last it was plain that he had worn himself out.

"Shall I name him?" he gasped. "Shall I name this peerless son of old

Logan, who in every hour of public need has been ready to answer the

call of public duty? He is known to you all, he is known to every one

in the seven counties that comprise this agricultural empire of the

Thirteenth District. Aye, his fame has spread beyond her confines, it

is written on the pages where are enrolled the glorious names of those

who fought the nation's battles, it is emblazoned in the fair temple

of civic triumph. We bring you a leader, Mr. Chairman, to harmonize

all your differences, to cement the grand old party for another mighty

onward march to victory, who will plant your flag as he has planted

that proud emblem of a free people, the glorious stars and stripes, on

the ramparts of the routed and flying enemy. Nominate him, gentlemen,

and in the Ides of November, when the ballots come

"'down as still

As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;

But execute a freeman's will

As lightning does the will of God,'

he will be found to have been elected."

And Knowlton sank into his chair, gasping for breath, his chest heaving

with the violence of his exertion. The delegates looked at him and at

one another a moment in surprise, and then they began to cry all at

once:

"What's his name?"

"You didn't name him!"

"Give us his name!"

"Name him!"

Knowlton sprang to his feet; for an instant he stood and looked

helplessly around. His face flamed a deeper crimson and he said in a

hoarse, tired voice:

"Our candidate, gentlemen--his name is General William M. Barrett."

The anti-climax produced a laugh which relieved the tensity of the

situation.

Knowlton sank into his chair again and was mopping his neck with his

handkerchief. The members of his own delegation pressed about him in

congratulation. Moist hands were thrust at him from all sides. Rankin

himself strode back and offered his felicitations. Knowlton smiled, and

shook his head in depreciation of his own effort. Some one thought to

second the nomination of Barrett, and the Singed Cat arose.

"Aire there--any other--or further--nominations?" he asked. "If

not--the nominations--aire now--closed. The delegates will prepare

their ballots--and the secretary--will call--the roll--of the counties."

The interest tightened. Delegations assembled close to their leaders,

and hats were passed for the ballots. The supreme moment had come.

Knowlton thought to create a sensation by his speech; he created

a greater by his nomination. The Logan County delegation had been

promised to Rankin by Jim O'Malley, but when at the county convention

in Lincoln O'Malley had been unable to secure a Garwood indorsement,

Rankin had feared the result there, and his fears had been confirmed

when he could not induce the full delegation to cast its solid vote for

his plan to make the temporary organization permanent. Their action in

dividing on that question had placed their twenty-four votes in the

doubtful column, and now that they had seen fit to spring a candidate

at the last moment, they had injected an uncertain element into the

calculations of both sides that perplexed the leaders. Rankin had hoped

to hold his eighty-three votes together that afternoon and nominate

Garwood on the first ballot. Now he saw that this would be impossible.

A long, stubborn fight was before him, and he had a candidate, as he

recognized himself, though by no means would he admit it, who would

not gain in strength as the hours passed by. At that moment he felt

that he was stronger than he ever would be again. That was why he had

refused to let the convention adjourn.

General Barrett, whom the Logan County delegation had thus brought

out, was, while not all perhaps that Knowlton had described him,

nevertheless Lincoln's leading man. He was popular in his own

community, he had amassed, if not strictly in his practice of the law,

yet in the opportunities that practice opened to him, a comfortable

competency. He had gone to Lincoln in an early day; he had led a

regiment to the Civil War, and had come out of the army with a clean

if not a brilliant record, and in the general distribution of brevets

immediately following the close of the mighty conflict he had shared to

the extent of an honorary brigadier-generalship. He had then gone home

to resume his quiet life, and by carefully pursuing a middle course

in all things, and avoiding the making of enemies, he had gradually

built up a reputation for honesty and integrity that made him an ideal

figure of the colorless, eminently respectable, safe and conservative

citizen. He had been a strict, though not an aggressive party man, and

whenever Logan County wished a name to juggle with in conventions,

they chose the name of General William M. Barrett, knowing that he

would not object, and so long as he was not nominated, that no one else

could object. He had never been elected to an office of profit, and

he had never been an avowed candidate for any, though he had served

on the school board and on all the public committees, in addition to

being invited to deliver orations on Decoration Day, yet he was ever

in a calm and receptive mood, and while Logan County delegations had

never gone so far as to nominate him for anything, he seemed never to

doubt the sincerity of their support. But there comes a time in the

career of the men whose names are continually before conventions when

the lightning strikes them, and both Rankin and Randolph saw that the

present hour was charged with just such a possibility.

The delegates had voted and now sat awaiting the delivery of the first

ballot. Hale began to call the roll of the counties.

"DeWitt?" Hale called.

"Eighteen votes for Conrad Sprague."

"Logan?"

O'Malley was up.

"Mr. Chairman," he said, "on behalf of the solid delegation from Logan

County I cast twenty-four votes for General William M. Barrett."

O'Malley winked at Rankin as he sat down.

"Mason?"

"Mr. Chairman," cried McKimmon, emulative of O'Malley, "on behalf of

the solid delegation from Mason County I have the honor to cast her

eighteen votes for our present able congressman, Honorable Jerome B.

Garwood!"

And Rankin started a cheer.

"Moultrie?"

Randolph was standing prominently in the middle aisle, or what had

been an aisle early in the day.

"Mr. Chairman," he said, in heavy tones, "Moultrie County gives her

fifteen votes to our _next_ congressman, Honorable Conrad Sprague."

And then the Sprague delegations cheered.

"Piatt?" the roll-call proceeded.

"Sprague fifteen votes!"

"Polk?"

Rankin had taken a seat, and sat with his fat elbows on his fat knees.

He had been keeping the count in his mind, as Randolph had been keeping

it on a scrap of paper. He knew what he had, and he knew that when

Sprague received the twenty-three votes Pusey would deliver to him,

Sprague would be in the lead. Pusey had passed his old straw hat for

the ballots, and it had ground Rankin to have to drop his own vote in

it, held as it was by the man who now usurped the place in the Polk

County delegation he had held for so many years. Pusey arose, and his

thin voice piped:

"Mr. Chairman, Polk County casts twenty-two votes for Garwood, and

twenty-three for Barrett." Rankin looked up. Randolph, who had been

preparing to order a volley of cheers for his candidate, stood stricken

dumb. The vote came as a surprise to everybody, but more than all to

the Logan County men. They were nonplussed. They had nominated Barrett

with a little more, perhaps, than their usual sincerity, but they

had merely gone to him temporarily in order to put themselves in a

controlling position between the other two candidates. Pusey, who had

been counted for Sprague by all, now held the balance of power. Hale

looked up as if there had been some mistake. At last Rankin, smiling

sardonically, and, as it were, to himself, arose and lumbered into

the aisle near Randolph. As he steered past the Sprague leader, still

dumbfounded, he said, with no attempt to conceal his words:

"I told you, Hal, you couldn't depend on the little cuss."

The Singed Cat smote his gavel down.

"The convention--will be--in order. Let--the roll-call--proceed."

"Tazewell?"

"Thirty votes for Garwood."

And then while Hale was footing his three little columns, conversation

hummed again among the delegates.

Pusey sat quietly tracing his mysterious figures on the floor with the

point of his little stick.

Rankin had paused by Hale's table where Cowley sat. Rankin smiled down

on the correspondent.

"Case o' buy, heh?" he said. "What?"

Cowley shrugged his shoulders expressively, like a foreigner.

"What?" Rankin repeated, his teeth showing in a broad significant grin.

Hale had written the result on a slip of paper and passed it up to

Bailey. The Singed Cat took it, and studied it.

"On this ballot," he began presently, "there have--been cast--one

hundred and sixty-five votes; necessary--to a choice, eighty-three. Of

these Mr. Garwood--has--received--seventy, Mr. Sprague--forty-eight,

and General Barrett forty-seven. No candidate--having received--the

necessary number--of votes, there has been--no nomination--and you

will, therefore--prepare your votes--for another ballot."

"Mr. Chairman," Rankin said, with a promptness that recognized the

change in the situation.

"The gentleman--from Polk."

"Mr. Chairman, I move that the convention do now adjourn until

to-morrow morning at nine o'clock."

The motion prevailed. The sun was a red ball, hanging low beyond the

river. It seemed that the hour was the hottest of the afternoon. Pusey

was sitting there moving his wrinkled jaws and puckered lips over his

tobacco, as inscrutably as the Singed Cat himself might have done, had

he chewed tobacco. It would take a night to find the bearings that had

been lost that afternoon.

XIII

General Barrett, hearing from Pekin that his county's delegation had

taken pardonable liberties with his name at the convention, arrived

on an evening train, and though his quiescent absence would have

suited his supporters better, they welcomed him at the old station

with as much enthusiasm as they could generate on so short a notice.

The general drove to the hotel in a carriage, and when he entered the

office bowed seriously, playing well the part of the distinguished

and respectable leader whom the voice of the people had summoned. To

Cowley, who interviewed him when his headquarters had been opened,

he said solemnly that he was in the hands of his friends, that he

considered this a fair field and an open contest, and esteemed his

own opportunities to be as favorable as those of either of the other

distinguished and able candidates.

All through the hot night the rooms of the three candidates blazed.

Delegates hung about them as the nocturnal bugs wheeling in on heavy

wing from the darkness outside fluttered around the coal oil lights,

though not all of them stuck as closely to the flame that had brought

them thither as did those hapless insects whose tragic fate matted

their wings at last to the oily glass bowls of the lamps. The general

remained in his room, democratically, where all could see him and

grasp his hand, and doubtless derived as much satisfaction from these

little levees as if he were holding larger and more significant ones.

Both Sprague and Garwood had other rooms opening off those where

the public were invited to gather and participate freely in the

distribution of campaign cigars that stood in boxes on the center

tables.

Garwood sat on the tumbled bed in his inner room, pale and haggard.

A cigar fumed constantly in his teeth. A tray of whisky glasses lay

on the table. With Garwood were Rankin and Bailey. They had gone over

the situation again and again. Delegate after delegate had been led

in to interview the congressman, every argument, every persuasion,

every threat that the three men could devise had been used. But they

made no appreciable headway. They had seventy votes and they felt that

they could hold them, for Rankin vouched for the twenty-two men from

Polk, the Singed Cat was calmly certain of his eighteen votes from

Mason, and Hale scouted the idea of any one of the thirty Tazewell

fellows failing. The remaining voles were so evenly divided between

Garwood's opponents that each would hesitate to go to the other. Any

coalition with the Sprague men was impossible; they were as determined

as Garwood's own. They must look for strength to the Barrett following.

They considered Pusey, and the twenty-three votes he controlled.

"Can't you see him, Jim?" Garwood suggested to Rankin.

The big man spat and shook his head.

"It 'uld do no good fer me to see him. I'd hate to speak to the little

cur, anyway."

"Well, look here, Jim, you mustn't let any personal feeling stand in

the way of our success," Garwood snarled. He was growing peevish from

the heat, the strain, the anxiety. Rankin laughed, as if at the whim of

a child.

"Don't worry 'bout me, Jerry," he said. He had dropped back into his

own old way of calling Garwood by his familiar name since the contest

for renomination had brought the congressman down to the hard earth

again. "I'll play my end of the game. Let Zeph here see him."

They considered in turn the twenty-four men from Logan County. O'Malley

was sent for, and came, half fearfully, reporting that his hands were

tied by the exigencies of affairs in his own county. He was half afraid

to be seen at Garwood's headquarters, lest suspicion stab him, though a

combination by which Garwood, when he knew his own chances were gone,

would throw his strength to Barrett was the one practical thing to do.

With such manoeuvering the night wore away. Garwood could reach no

agreement with the Barrett men. Bailey saw Pusey, but the little editor

was wily, he was playing some strange game of his own, and he sent word

that if Garwood wished to see him, to come himself. What his game was

none of them could find out; they did not think him at all sincere in

his support of Barrett, and hourly feared that he might draw Barrett's

forces into the Sprague column. Meanwhile, Pusey's political attitude

was that of one who had simply taken refuge in the peaceful eddy that

swam in the wake of Barrett's utter respectability and availability,

until some definite turn should be taken by the current. Towards

morning some of the tired delegates declared truces, and arranged poker

games. Their clicking chips could be heard on all that second floor of

the hotel. And some of them went out under the purple sky of a summer

night, a sky studded with brilliant stars. Leo was low in the west, the

moon swam in a sea of silver along the horizon. They heard the calming

voice of insects, they felt the breeze of the night on their brows.

The morning came, with its brazen sky. Once more the white clouds

mounted in the west as if trying again for rain, and the day wore on

like the one before, without change. The sun blazed on high, seeming

to shrink in its own fierce dazzling concentration as it flashed its

rays into that hot court room where the convention sat and balloted,

one ballot after another, until a hundred, two hundred, five hundred,

had been taken, until the floor was strewn with paper and discolored

by tobacco, the air heavy with smoke, the feculence of all their

breathing, the acrid smell of perspiration. The sky darkened, and those

tired men sighed for rain. The thunder rolled down the valley of the

Illinois, and then ceased. The sky cleared, and the heat increased. And

all the while the ballots which Hale announced were the same:

Garwood Sprague Barrett

DeWitt 18

Logan 24

Mason 18

Moultrie 15

Piatt 15

Polk 22 23

Tazewell 30

-- -- --

Totals 70 48 47

XIV

Thursday came and another day with its oppressive heat and even more

oppressive suspense wore away; and still another came and wore away

like the one before it. The week was marching by, and the delegates

were no nearer a choice than when they first began. The convention had

taken twelve hundred and sixty ballots; more than had been taken at the

Clinton convention two years before. Still the ballot was unchanged,

Garwood seventy, Sprague forty-eight, Barrett forty-seven.

Evening came, and the delegates, drawn and spent, refused to hold a

night session. They trudged back to the hotel, and resumed the tiresome

rounds of the headquarters, the fruitless conferences, the profitless

scheming. They gathered in groups in the hotel office, filling the

air with their cigar smoke. The noise of conversation ascended to the

floors above, but it no longer was lightened by laughter; now it had

a harsh, angry note of contest. Surely the strain could not last much

longer. It must end as must the insatiable heat.

Up in Garwood's room they had tried all their arts again, and again

they had all proved unsuccessful. They had approached Pusey, and he had

shuffled away with his impenetrable air, they had sounded the Logan

County delegation, but found that the whim which had led it to bring

out Barrett had now developed, under the pressure of the long unbroken

deadlock, into an unaccountable opposition to Garwood, that had in it

all the bitterness of a personal aversion. The Sprague men, of course,

were utterly out of the question, and the only consolation they had

was that Garwood was still in the lead, and that his delegates, upon

being canvassed once more, declared that they would "go down into the

last ditch with Jerry." To Garwood it seemed that they were in the

last ditch then. Each new step in the hall seemed to him the coming of

the news that Sprague and Barrett had coalesced. He felt the need of

instant action.

The strain was telling even on Rankin, but he was never idle. Most of

the men in Garwood's rooms had visibly relaxed, and some one, feeling

no doubt that they were about to settle down to one of those long

deadlocks that last for weeks, had suggested a game of poker, and had

asked Rankin to join in it.

"No," he said, "I've got my work to do. I must see some fellers

to-night. You boys play, though," he added in his kindly way. "The

judge here'll play with you. You play, don't you, Zeph?"

"Well," the Singed Cat drawled, "I'm better'n a--green hand."

And so they got out the chips. It all irritated Garwood beyond

endurance. He slung on his coat savagely, and seized his hat. For

them to sit calmly down to play cards while he was in that clutch of

circumstance, was more than he could bear.

"I'm going out awhile," he flung at them.

"That's right, Jerry," said Rankin, "that's the thing for you to

do. The exercise'll do you good. I'm goin' to see O'Malley after

while--I'll look after things. Stay long's you want."

And Garwood left, swearing. Down the hallway he heard the click of the

chips of other games; at Barrett's room he had a glimpse of the old

man sitting in all his dignity with some of the boys from Logan County

leaning over him. Sprague's door, too, was open; he caught the laughter

within, and as he passed, he suddenly beheld O'Malley and Knowlton

talking with Randolph. The scene was etched on his mind, the three men

standing there in the bright light, the hats of O'Malley and Knowlton

thrown back, Randolph bareheaded, his coat and waistcoat off, his long

cravat unknotted, and dangling over his soiled bosom. As he passed he

heard Knowlton say:

"All right then, Hal."

Garwood hastened on. Hot as the little old hotel was, he broke into a

cold sweat. The very thing he had feared was coming to pass! And they

were so open about it, too!

His first thought was to turn back and rouse Rankin, but a strange

childish fear of Randolph seized him, a morbid dread of being seen by

any of his opponents just then, and he kept on.

When he reached the head of the stairs, Garwood saw Pusey shambling

across the office, tapping his little cane on the floor, as a blind

man might, though he did it meditatively, as if he were striking at the

crawling flies instead of the cockroaches from which he was separated.

Garwood stiffened at the sight of this old enemy. His breath came fast,

his cold sweat was succeeded by a flush of heat, and then:

"Oh, Pusey!" he called.

The editor turned. His quick eye caught the congressman on the stairs.

"Heh?" he said.

Garwood descended, with dignity now, for he was emerging into public

view again. The editor drew slowly toward the staircase. They met.

"I'm going for a little walk--thought maybe the night air might refresh

me. Care to go along?"

"Don't care if I do," said Pusey.

The office was deserted by all save the landlord who snoozed behind his

counter, the insects that buzzed around the lamps, and the flies that

walked like somnambulists across the ceiling, and on the walls. The two

men sauntered carelessly toward the side door.

Once outside Garwood sniffed in eagerly the night air that bathed his

brow.

"Isn't it a bit cooler?" he said.

"Don't know but it is," acquiesced Pusey. "Heat don't bother me much,

though."

The sky was black overhead, not a star was to be seen. In the west,

now and then, a glare of heat lightning trembled over all the sky,

photographing for them instantly the strange roofs, the strange

chimneys, the black outline of strange trees, beginning to lurch slowly

like elephants, in the little wind that stirred.

"I believe there's a breeze," Garwood said. He was still sniffing the

night air like an animal. "Rain, too, in that air, eh?"

Pusey tapped along on the old brick sidewalk with his little stick and

said nothing.

"Have a cigar?" said Garwood presently.

"Don't care if I do," said Pusey, throwing away the one he was smoking.

They paused, a match scratched on a heel threw the ruddier lightning

of its own tiny flame upon their faces and then their cigars glowed in

the darkness, and left behind them a fragrance that no other cigar in

Pekin could exhale, nor any perhaps, outside a certain cigar store in

Pennsylvania Avenue, where Garwood owed a bill.

"Let's go toward the river, Pusey," said Garwood. "I fancy it'll be

cooler there."

"Don't care if I do," said Pusey.

* * * * *

The storm had come at last; the long heat was broken. Overhead the

thunder pealed up and down its whole wide diapason, booming now and

then with new explosions, then rolling away in awful melody into some

distant quarter of the broken heavens. The lightning crackled in long

streams of fire that zigzagged down the black sky, reaching from heaven

to earth, and in its after-glare the clouds that flew so low showed

their gray scud. The rain fell with a dead incessant drumming on the

earth, warm as new milk, and all green things stirred rapturously as

they drank it in.

Down on the banks of the Illinois River Garwood stood and looked on the

dark waters. In the constant play of the lightning he saw the trees on

the other shore bending their round heads to the wind; he could see

even their green leaves distinct in the dazzling white light. He saw

once some warm, earthly gleam shining in some window he would never

know. He caught now and then the outline of some house-boat, rude

dwelling of the river-people, stirring uneasily at its moorings. Once

he saw the wild sails of one of the wind mills erected by the German

settlers of that region, brought with them, as it were, from their home

far across the seas, and once again in a glare more lasting and vivid

than any other, he saw a telegraph pole lifting itself for an instant

to his vision, spreading its arms, and it reminded him of a cross on a

hill, some new Golgotha. He closed his eyes and looked that way no more.

Behind him a crazy street that scrambled up from the water's edge led

back to the heart of the town. The small houses showed cheerful lights,

now and then a laugh was borne to him from some person humanly glad of

the relief the rain had brought. Then, in a fresh illumination, he saw

the court house where the fates were playing with him. The storm raged,

the lightning raced in sheets of flame along the river, and though the

winds lashed the rain up and down its bosom like a broom, the drops

fell so heavily that the surface of the waters was smooth and placid

as on a summer afternoon, only dimpled with the infinite drops. The

congressman stood in the lush wet grass, the water running off his

broad hat in little rivulets, but he soaked himself to the skin, and

drank in the rain, like all other life about him. He stood there long,

as though defying the storm. He folded his arms in tragic attitudes.

His thoughts flashed here and there over his whole life, illuminating

for him scenes that stood vivid in memory just as the lightning showed

him the court house, the trees across the river, the shanty boat, the

wind mill, the Golgotha of the telegraph pole. He thought of his first

convention, of the day he waited in the Harkness drawing-room and saw

old Jasper working in the yard; of that election night in Chicago, of

his place in the House at Washington; he thought of Rankin, of his

mother, of Emily, of his boy--ah, the boy!

The lightning glared. His eye caught the telegraph pole again, he saw

the cross, leaning at an awful angle on the hill; he shuddered and

pulled down the brim of his hat and went away.

When he entered the hotel, the new life brought by the rain was

apparent in the new energy displayed by the politicians. They had

gathered indoors. Garwood heard them joking, he heard them laughing.

There was industry everywhere. The headquarters were full. In his own

room, the poker game was in progress. The chips clicked merrily. Even

Rankin had succumbed and sat at the table, a pile of the red and blue

disks before him. His coat and waistcoat and collar, even his shoes,

were off; his suspenders hung at his hips, his great body was all

relaxed. The windows were open, the dirty curtains streamed on the wind

that blew in, and the floor was wet where the rain had sprinkled it

unrestrained. Rankin was laughing, joying in the rain.

"Ain't it great?" he said in his bass voice. And he shook himself to

relish the sensation of coolness after all the week of insufferable

heat.

The Singed Cat sat on a hard, rigid chair, his coat still on,

impervious as ever to the little discomforts of life.

"This game," he drawled, raising an eye to Garwood, "seems to be--for

the purpose--of determining--whether--these fellows--get my money--or I

get their--I O U's."

And the room rang loudly with the laughter.

Garwood stood, dripping with water, and looked at them in wonderment.

"Heat spell's broken," Rankin said presently. "Wisht the deadlock was.

Maybe, though, the rain 'ill fetch us luck. What d'ye think, Jerry?"

Garwood looked at him as if he did not know what the man had said.

XV

The storm ceased just before daybreak and the light that slowly

spread over the prairie to the eastward suffused a new world. The

water dripped musically from the trees, the robins sang, the frogs

croaked comfortably along the wet banks of the river, and the morning

poured down its green valley an air that sparkled like champagne. The

convention met again at nine o'clock, but it seemed another convention.

The delegates arrived early, and they, too, seemed to have been made

over like the world, for they entered, even the eldest of them, with a

new spring in their steps, and it was to be noticed that they had been

shaved and wore clean linen.

The court room had been swept of all its litter, and the floor was

still damp with the fancy scrolls the janitor had written with water

from his sprinkling-can, as if it had been some new kind of fountain

pen. The chairs were set in a fine amphitheater, so orderly that the

delegates sat down in them carefully, as if, possessed by a new sense

of harmony, they feared to destroy the pleasing arrangement of things.

Even the cigars they puffed, sending their white smoke gracefully

up into the lively air, had gained a fragrance. The delegates had

forgotten the animosities of the past few days, and they joked each

other as they met again on the old brotherly footing.

Rankin was there with an enormous fresh collar lying down about his

neck. He had left off his waistcoat, and the white shirt his wife had

packed in his little traveling-bag when he started from home was now

at last donned in obedience to her parting mandate, and unhidden as it

was, gave to the world a broad and convincing proof of his domestic

discipline. Randolph, too, was immaculate, while young Knowlton was

almost senatorial in freshly brushed black clothes and linen that had

the metallic gloss of the laundry machine on it.

"Well, Jim," Randolph called across the room, "going to withdraw your

candidate this morning, ain't you?"

"No, I'm goin' to withdraw yourn."

"What do you say to withdrawing them all and uniting on you? You'd make

a noble congressman."

"You bet I would," Rankin responded, "but I couldn't afford to give the

job all my time fer the money the's in it."

"Of course not," Randolph flung back at him, "but you might sublet it

to me."

"Well, I might git you a job shovelin' wind off the Capitol, only I

reckon you wouldn't da'st leave that lucrative law practice o' yourn,

heh?"

The delegates around laughed at the old, old jokes with which they

chaffed each other.

"What do you say to unitin' on Grant here? That speech o' his t'other

day 'uld tease the whole surplus out o' the treasury."

Knowlton blushed. Perhaps his heart swelled for a second at the mere

thought, for, like all young lawyers, he had his ambitions, with the

dome of the Capitol at Washington in the perspective of his dreams.

But the Singed Cat was leaning over the judge's desk again and his

little eyes, out of his thin serious face, swept the circle of chairs

before him. His gavel fell.

"The convention--will be--in order," he said in his penetrating voice.

And then he paused and looked solemnly about. "The chair--desires to

remind--the convention--" he continued, and the delegates looked up

in alarm, "that the administration--at Washington--has redeemed--its

promise--of prosperity--to the farmer--by sending--the former--and

latter rain--upon the earth--in due season, which shows--what the

party--can do--in the way--of keeping promises--when it gets--its hand

in."

The convention laughed. Men were one with all nature in being glad that

morning. Then the chairman continued gravely as before:

"Proceeding upon--the regular order--another ballot--for nomination--of

a representative--in Congress--will be taken. Gentlemen--will

prepare--their ballots, and the secretary--will call--the roll."

And Hale, for the twelve hundred and sixty-first time, began his

monotonous repetition.

"DeWitt?"

"Sprague, eighteen."

The chairmen long ago had ceased to poll their delegations or to

make the formal announcements they had found so pleasant when they

first began. They had long been answering the roll-call in a fixed

perfunctory manner, as a bailiff opens court by a formula that has

grown meaningless, and will know no change as long as institutions last.

"Logan?"

"Twenty-four for Barrett."

"Mason?"

"Garwood, eighteen."

Some of the delegates had strolled to the open windows and stood

leaning idly on the sills, looking out on the wonderful morning.

"Moultrie?"

"Fifteen, Sprague."

"Piatt?"

"Sprague, fifteen."

"Polk?"

Pusey arose.

"Mr. Chairman," he said in his weak voice. Delegates near him looked

up, Randolph crouched like a lynx, then rose on bent knees, with an

alert inquiry in his eyes.

"On behalf of the delegation from Polk County," Pusey continued, "I

cast the solid forty-five votes for Jerome B. Garwood."

Hale, leaning listlessly on an elbow, his head in his hand, gazing

away like an abstracted schoolboy through the open windows as if the

woods and fields beckoned him from irksome routine tasks, had been

calling the roll from memory, and keeping no tally, for he knew the

formula perfectly by this time. But he looked up, startled. Rankin

tilted back in his chair, let it come down suddenly, its legs striking

the floor with a bang; his jaw fell. Knowlton sprang to his feet, his

face written all over with surprise, and Randolph, his eyes ablaze,

quickly straightening his legs and raising himself on his toes broke

the startled stillness by crying excitedly:

"Mr. Chairman!"

There was a scraping of chairs, a hum of voices, that ascended

immediately to a roar, and then a score of men began to shout crazily:

"Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!"

Pusey had seated himself, he was as indifferent as ever. And Rankin

could only stare at him in stupefaction.

The Singed Cat alone was unmoved by the startling climax to all those

withering days of heat and suspense. He hammered the desk with his

gavel and said:

"The convention--again--will be--in order. Let the roll-call proceed."

And Hale called loudly amid the din that would not subside:

"Tazewell?"

The chairman of that delegation shouted:

"Thirty votes for Garwood!"

The staid old court room with all its traditions of the dignity of

judicial proceedings was in an uproar. The whole convention was on its

feet, everybody was calling: "Mr. Chairman." From without, men to whom

had been borne by some occult transmission of intelligence the news of

that, the final moment, crowded breathlessly into the room. The belief

that the morning was cool had been a delusion. Now that the peace

induced by universal harmony had been marred, men began to perspire, to

grow red in the face; the atmosphere in an instant had become stifling.

The Garwood men had begun to cheer. The Sprague men and perhaps the

little group of Barrett's supporters, foiled in whatever their original

purpose had been, realized that they were defeated, and they raged

impotently. Hale was hurriedly casting up his easy sum, and when he

handed the slip to Bailey his heart leaped with the thought that at

last the Pekin post-office was his.

The Singed Cat deliberately studied his figures, and his deliberation,

with the power of the definite announcement that was pending, compelled

a sudden quiet his gavel had theretofore been unable to invoke. And

at last, in the suspense which was all fictitious, the product of the

Anglo-Saxon mania for legal forms, he said:

"Upon this ballot. General William M. Barrett--has

received--twenty-four votes," it was seen that he was reversing

the order for its effect, "Conrad Sprague--forty-eight, and Jerome

B. Garwood--ninety-three. Mr. Garwood--having received--the

necessary number--and a majority--of all--the votes--cast--is

therefore--declared--to be--the nominee--of the convention--for

Representative--in Congress--for the Thirteenth District--of

Illinois--for the term--beginning--the fourth day--of March--ensuing."

The strain was over, the long pent-up emotions of the seventy men who

had stood solidly for Jerry Garwood, and now had won victory at last,

broke forth, and they flung their hats into the air, tore off their

coats to wave aloft, brandished chairs, and pounded one another on the

back, yelling all the time. The followers of Sprague yelled no less

excitedly, though their rage was that of defeat. Randolph strode to

where Hale was sitting, his mouth stretched wide in a demented yell,

and pounded the table with his fist, crying unceasingly:

"Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!"

The Singed Cat stood leaning as he had leaned for days, with his eyes

upon the desk he had scarred with his gavel. For ten minutes, and it

seemed an hour, the men howled, until exhausted by the exertion and the

excitement, their voices failed, and they collapsed into their chairs.

But Randolph, in the approximate order which the exhaustion brought

about, continued to cry, until at last the Singed Cat's voice pierced

to all the corners of the court house.

"The convention--will be--in order! The convention--has not--yet

adjourned. There is--still--work--to be done."

But Randolph continued to cry.

"Gentlemen--will resume--their seats," Bailey said, "before--they

can--be recognized."

Randolph hesitated, though still he cried:

"Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!"

But Bailey's eye forced him backward to his place, and when he had

retreated to the midst of the Moultrie County delegation the chairman

said:

"The gentleman--from Moultrie."

"Mr. Chairman," Randolph said, and the convention, supposing he was

about to observe custom and move to make the nomination unanimous,

listened. "Mr. Chairman," he said, "I challenge the vote of the Polk

County delegation."

"The gentleman--from Moultrie--is out--of order," the Singed Cat

promptly ruled. "None--but a member--of the Polk County delegation--can

challenge--its vote."

The Sprague men seemed about to gather themselves for another noisy

protest, but interest had suddenly veered to the Logan County

delegation. There a consultation was in progress, hurried and eager,

and out of it Knowlton arose, and his splendid bass voice boomed:

"Mr. Chairman!"

"The gentleman--from Logan."

"Mr. Chairman, I move you, sir, that the nomination of Jerome B.

Garwood be made unanimous."

He had seized the only little chance that remained of identifying his

delegation with the success of the nominee. The band wagon had taken

them by surprise and rolled by too swiftly for them to climb in.

"The gentleman--from--Logan--moves--to make--the nomination--of

the Honorable--Jerome B. Garwood--for candidate--for the office--of

Representative--in Congress--unanimous," said the Singed Cat, yielding

not a word of all his formula. "Those in favor--will say--'Aye.'"

The motion carried, of course, though not without a great shout of

"Noes" from the little band of Sprague men, who had gathered about

their leader, looking defiance out of their defeat. The Garwood men had

wrung the moist hand of Pusey, but it was Rankin whom they selected

for the center of their celebration. As they crowded about him, they

pommeled him, pulled him, screamed in his ears; they would have liked

to toss him to their shoulders, but he was too big to be moved. He

could only sit in the midst of all their clamor, and stare in wonder

and amaze at Pusey. He, to whom all the credit for the victory was

ascribed could not understand it, that was all. But presently when he

heard his name mentioned officially, he stirred. Knowlton had moved

that a committee be appointed to wait on Garwood and inform him of his

nomination, and what Rankin heard was the voice of Bailey saying:

"And the chair--appoints--as members--of the committee--Messrs.

Knowlton of Logan--Randolph of Moultrie--and Rankin of Polk."

The committee found their nominee in his room at the hotel. He was

sitting calmly by his open window looking into the green boughs of

the elm trees that grew along that side of the old hostelry. An open

book lay on his knee, and having calmly called "Come in!" in answer

to the knock at the door, he looked up as they entered, as if they had

interrupted the meditations of a statesman.

"Ah, gentlemen," he said, rising.

He laid his book aside and stepped softly toward them. Rankin saw at

once the change that was on him. His hair was combed, his face shaven,

his long coat brushed, and he had donned a fresh white waistcoat. As

Rankin noted these details, a pain pinched his heart, for he deduced

from them that there was no surprise in store for Garwood. Ordinarily

he would have been the first to speak, he would have rushed forward,

and seized the hand of his candidate, and exulted in his frank and open

way, but now the words he had were checked on his lips, and he remained

dumb, growing formal as the sensitive will. Thus it was left for

Knowlton, for Randolph had no stomach for the job, to say, as he held

forth his hand:

"Mr. Garwood, let me be the first to congratulate you on your

nomination."

Garwood smiled, and took Knowlton's hand.

"Gentlemen, I thank you," he said. He gave his hand to Randolph, and

last of all to Rankin.

"Ah, Jim, old fellow," he said.

But he did not meet Rankin's eye.

"The convention is waiting for you, Mr. Garwood," said Knowlton, and

the nominee answered:

"Ah, indeed? I shall be glad to accompany you."

The citizens at the door of the court room for whom a representative

in Congress had just been chosen, parted to let them pass, but they

did not cheer. They accepted their character of mere spectators, and

seemed to feel that they had no right to disturb the proceedings by any

demonstration of their own. But the slight commotion they made had its

effect within, and the waiting delegates turned their heads to catch a

glimpse of their coming congressman. He walked down the aisle on the

right arm of Knowlton; Randolph and Rankin came marching behind. The

Garwood men began to clap their hands, they stamped their feet, and

at last they lifted up a shout, and so, marching erect among them,

his face white, his brows intent and his fixed eyes brilliant with

excitement, Garwood walked the short way to the front. The Singed Cat

met him at the steps of the rostrum, and having taken his hand, raised

him to the judge's place, and said:

"Gentlemen of the convention, I have the honor--to present to you--your

nominee--and next congressman--the Honorable--Jerome B. Garwood."

Bailey faded into the judge's chair, and Garwood, slowly buttoning his

coat, stood and looked over the body of delegates. He began to bow. It

was Hale now who led the applause, not Rankin, and he kept them at it

by sheer force of the persistence with which he clapped his own hands,

not giving in until he felt that the enthusiasm did justice to the

candidate, to his victory, and to the occasion. The Sprague men sat

silent, no sound came from their quarter.

Garwood bowed in his stateliest way to the Singed Cat as he said:

"Mr. Chairman," and he bowed again to his audience as he added, "and

gentlemen of the convention." And then he made his speech.

He would not detain them long at that time, he said, as if, at some

future day, they might expect to be held indefinitely. But he detained

them long enough to assure them how impossible it was for him to

find words in which to express his thanks for the confidence they

had reposed in him, and his warm appreciation of the honor they had

conferred upon him. He referred to his past services in their behalf,

and in behalf of the party, and he put the responsibility for his

success upon them by saying that future victories could only come

through their united efforts, as if he were making a sacrifice for

their sake in consenting to be their candidate at all.

He spoke with the customary assumption that his nomination had

come entirely unsought, but he made them feel his devotion by the

willingness with which he assured them he would bear their banner that

fall, and he graciously promised to give his entire time from then

until November to the election of the whole ticket. Then in briefly

reviewing the services and the sacrifices of the late Congress, he

repeated, though with a fine extemporaneous effect, the best sentences

of his speech at Washington, and quoted readily for them the most

impressive statistics of imports and exports, which they did not at all

understand, and as if these figures had fully vindicated the wisdom of

their party's policy on the tariff question, he predicted that the

scepter of commercial empire was even then passing into the hands of

the United States.

He did not forget the old soldiers, nor their pensions, neither did he

neglect to pay most generous tributes to the distinguished gentlemen

whose names had been mentioned in connection with the high office to

which he had been nominated. He seemed almost to regret that they had

not been chosen in his place, such were their superior merits and

nobler virtues. And thus by an easy oratorical circuit, he came around

to where he had begun, and thanking his fellow countrymen again, bowed

and smiled, and turned to receive the congratulatory hand of the Singed

Cat.

When the applause which Hale had loyally started had ended, there were

cries for Sprague, but as Sprague was not there, an awkward pause

was prevented by a prompt change in the burden of the cry, which now

became a demand for Barrett. From some immediate vantage point the

general was conjured forth, and made his speech, thanking his friends,

congratulating his opponents, and extolling the party they unitedly

represented, as if he were as well satisfied with defeat as he would

have been with victory. He smiled complacently behind his white beard,

and he left the rostrum with his dignity and respectability unimpaired.

And the convention was over.

XVI

Saturday evening Emily had a telegram from Garwood announcing his

nomination. The message might have come to her Saturday noon, but

Garwood had found the delegates for the most part in mood for

celebration, while he himself in the reaction of his spirit, was

not disinclined that way. He held a levee in his rooms reveling in

felicitations and when this was done, he suddenly thought of the

Sprague men, smarting under defeat. They must not be allowed to depart

for home nursing their sores, and Garwood made it a point to see them,

or to have Rankin see them, and check in its incipiency a contagion

that might plague him in the fall. So it was evening before he thought

to wire his wife, and it was late in the night before he took the train

for Lincoln, where he was to change cars for home, leaving the little

old German town to settle to its normal quiet for Sunday morning.

Emily, with the knowledge of politics that politicians' wives acquire,

had watched from day to day the development of the contest at Pekin.

Jerome had not written at all, but Emily chose to consider his failure

as an exercise of one of the privileges of matrimony to which lovers

look forward as they labor over their love letters. But she added a

second reason which betrayed the specious quality of the first, when

she explained to her father that in these days of newspapers, letter

writing had become a lost art, belonging to a lavender scented past

like the embroidery of tapestries. She told her baby, as she rolled

his round little body in her lap, that she was jealous of politics,

and promised him that when the convention was over, his father would

be--and here she gasped and dropped the pretense that the child

could understand. She could not bear to voice, even to herself, the

feeling that her husband was any less the lover that he once had been.

She realized to the utmost his position, she had felt it in little

sacrifices she had been compelled to make, and she knew of his utter

dependence on reëlection. Here, too, was another fact that she could

hardly face squarely and honestly. She clung to her old ideal of her

husband as a statesman no less ardently than she clung to her old ideal

of him as a lover, and she disliked to feel that he was in Congress

merely as a means of livelihood. A vague discontent floated nebulously

within her, but with all the adroitness of her mind she would not allow

it to concrete.

"When he comes home!" she cooed to the baby, "when he comes home!"

By Saturday, the strain upon her nerves had increased, like all

anxieties, in a ratio equal to the square of the distance from its

moving cause. All day long she waited for news, hoping for the best,

but fortifying herself by trying to believe that if the worst came, it

might in the end be beneficial, because it must in time, at least,

force them to some more secure temporal foundation, where they could

not be disturbed by every whim of politics. She remembered that Jerome

had often reminded her, though that was in moments of security and

elation, that all they that take the sword shall perish with the

sword. Her father himself suffered a sympathetic suspense and in the

afternoon he journeyed down town to see if he could learn anything of

what was going on at Pekin. Late in the day the _Citizen_ hung out a

bulletin saying that Garwood had been nominated on the twelve hundred

and sixty-first ballot, and he hastened home, with the importance of an

idle old man, longing to be the first to announce to Emily the news.

But she waved her telegram gaily at him from the veranda as he hurried

up the walk, and cried:

"He's won, father! He's won! He's just been nominated!"

The old man, cheated of a herald's distinction, could not resist the

impulse to say: