“It sure is. And with a few more such tips, Conover would be ‘done,’ too. He’s carried matters high-handedly for years, but now maybe someone he’s ridden rough-shod over has turned on him.”
The great night had come. Clive and Ansel, arriving at the Opera House, found that gaudy, gayly-lighted auditorium full to the doors. On the stage sat the mayor, the proprietor of one of the papers, a half-dozen clergymen and a score of civic dignitaries. The boxes were filled with well-dressed women. Evening suits blended with the less conspicuous costumes of the spectators who stretched from stage to entrance, from orchestra to roof. A band below the stage played popular and national airs.
The news of Clive’s eccentric pre-convention tour, of his eloquence, his clean manliness and the obstacles he had overcome, had drawn hundreds through sheer curiosity. More had come because they were weary of Conover’s rule and eagerly desired to learn what his young antagonist had to offer them in place of bossism.
Skilled, by experience, in reading the sentiment of crowds, Clive, as he stepped onto the stage, felt instinctively that the main body of the house was kindly disposed toward him. Not only was this proven by the spontaneous applause that heralded his appearance, but by a ripple—a rustle—of interest that rose on every hand. The sound nerved him. He considered once more how much hung on to-night’s success or failure, and the advance augury was as music to his ears.
The mayor, a little, nervous man with a monstrous mustache and a cast in one eye, opened the meeting with a brief speech, defining the purpose of the evening, and ended by introducing the candidate. Clive came forward. A volley of applause such as he had never before known hailed him. He bowed and bowed again, waiting for it to subside. But it did not. It continued from every quarter of the house.
From pleasure Clive felt a growing uneasiness. The majority of the audience seemed to have relapsed into silence, and were staring about them in wonder at the unduly continued ovation. The thumping of feet and canes and the shouts of welcome increased rather than diminished. It settled down into a steady volume of sound, regular and rhythmic, shaking the whole auditorium, losing any hint at spontaneity and degenerating into a deafening, organized babel.
The men on the platform glanced at each other in angry bewilderment. For fully ten minutes the tumult endured, rendering intelligible words out of the question. The mayor, as chairman, rapped for silence. But his efforts were vain. The sound was drowned in the vaster, reëchoing volume of rhythmic sound. Clive held up his hand with a gesture of authority. The applause doubled.
This was growing absurd. The quiet majority of the audience waxed restive, and half-rose in its seats to locate the disturbance. To end the embarrassing delay Standish began to speak, hoping the clamor would die down. But his words did not reach the second row of seats.
Ansel slipped forward to his side.
“This is a put-up job!” he exclaimed, shouting to make himself heard above the uproar. “They are pretending to applaud because they think you dare not call them down for that. They’ll keep it up all evening if they get a chance, and you won’t be able to speak ten words.”