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.