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.