X
THE convention was to meet at ten o’clock, but at that hour, while the hotel was left desolate, the Circuit Court room in the old brick court house where the convention was to sit, was still empty, and scarcely divested of any of its solemnity by the chairs that had been set in order for the accommodation of the representatives of the people who were to deliberate there. For half an hour the delegates had been gathering at the somber building, and now clustered in groups in the historic portico that had witnessed, so many years before, one of the great debates between Lincoln and Douglas. The delegates found the shade grateful, and leaned against the gray stone columns smoking the cigars which the candidates had supplied with such prodigal generosity. With them were many spectators and the curiosity of these was hardly larger than the curiosity of the delegates, who, though they had all the power in their hands, could only speculate, not as to what they would do with the power, but what would be done with it for them, and they awaited the coming of their leaders with a calm, almost amusing submission to their desires and designs.
The morning advanced, and with it the heat increased, until at length some of the delegates, on whom the deputed dignity of the people sat with such weight that they wished to feel some of its importance by taking their seats, entered the court room. There they resumed their curious speculations as to whether Garwood or Sprague would be nominated, awaiting the advent of some hand strong enough to gather them all together and mold them to its own purposes.
But at length and suddenly there was a noise and in through the doors poured the crowd that had remained outside, bringing with it a palpable breath of heat. In the center of the throng was Jim Rankin, his smiles scattered abroad for all. He worked his way with heavy shoulders into the court room, and with an authoritative stride swung down towards the judge’s bench where the presiding officer of the convention was to wield his gavel.
On the wall the big clock bearing the advertisement of a local jeweler judicially ticked away three quarters of an hour before Rankin mounted the judge’s bench. He had been sitting meantime, in the jury box, whispering to Judge Bailey as composedly as though the whole convention was not waiting for him to perform the last rite that would invoke its political life. He had even removed his coat, and sat in his rounded white shirt sleeves, with the self-possession of a judge himself, who knows that the session of court cannot begin until he wills it and that none dare show impatience lest he embarrass his cause. But now and then some delegate, showing no more respect for Rankin than the ordinary American freeman really feels for a judge, however much custom compels him to dissimulate in court, would cry: “Get a move on you, Jim,” and at last Rankin arose, put on his coat, whispered a last word to Bailey, and mounted the raised platform where was ordinarily enthroned the impersonated authority of the statute in such case made and provided and the whole peace and dignity of the people of the state of Illinois.
Rankin’s figure showed fine and burly, half of it towering above the judge’s desk, as he looked over all the heads before him, where, somehow, he was determined to count eighty-three votes for Jerome B. Garwood. He stood there huge and powerful until something of his strength impressed the delegates before him, until he felt, as they themselves felt, a moral mastery over their minds. His dignity, showing in the broad reach of his heavy shoulders, shining from his sleepless eyes, had in it all of the accumulated fire of his anger at the opposition that had dared assail him, and he wished it to be felt. He singled out Pusey, bowed among the very men who knew Jim Rankin best, for the concentration of his gaze. Somewhere he had got a gavel, as it was supposed, though it was not a gavel, but a gager’s flat mallet, or bung-starter, ironically symbolic of the real power that lay behind him, though no one there saw the irony. And with this in his fat and hairy fist he gave three heavy raps.
“The convention will be in order,” he said. The simple words were the consummation of all the months of scheming and toiling that had gone before in that Thirteenth District, and the delegates insensibly braced under the idea.
“I ain’t goin’ to make any speech,” he began, and then paused an instant before he added, with an intense significance, “at this stage of the proceedin’s.”
Some among the delegates caught the threat that lurked in the statement.
“But,” Rankin went on, “the committee has chosen as temp’rary chairman o’ this convention Judge Zephaniah P. Bailey of Mason County.”
There was a hum of human interest in the crowd. But Rankin had not done. He still stood there, and the delegates cocked their ears to hear the rest. One or two leaders among the Sprague faction rose to their feet in readiness for parliamentary action.
“An’ fer temp’rary sec’etary, Joseph Hale of Tazewell.”
Instantly the Sprague leaders began to shout:
“Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!”
Their cries were reinforced by the shouts of half the delegates, the half, approximately, that were there to vote for Sprague. The Garwood men sat tight, with soft smiles of satisfaction.
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.