The quietly humorous young man wielding the gavel found it difficult to maintain quiet in the midst of such excitement, but he finally evolved order from chaos.
Wilksley was the first candidate nominated, a gentleman from the fourteenth delivering a bombastic oration in pompous periods, accompanied by lofty gestures. He was followed by an understudy, who made an ineffective effort to support his predecessor.
“A ricochet shot,” commented Joe. “Wait till Dave hits the bullseye.”
The supporting representatives of the dark horse made short, forceful speeches. Then followed a brief intermission, while David called a substitute pro tem to the speaker’s desk. He stepped to the platform to make the nominating speech for Hume, the speech for which every 195 one was waiting. There was a hush of expectancy, and M’ri felt little shivers of excitement creeping down her spine as she looked up at David, dauntless, earnest, and compelling, as he towered above them all.
In its simplicity, its ring of truth, and its weight of conviction, his speech was a masterpiece.
“A young Patrick Henry!” murmured the Judge.
M’ri made no comment, for in that flight of a second that intervened between David’s speech and the roar of tumultuous applause, she had heard a voice, a young, exquisite voice, murmur with a little indrawn breath, “Oh, David!”
M’ri turned in surprise, and looked into the confused but smiling face of a lovely young girl, who said frankly and impulsively: “I don’t know who Mr. Hume may be, but I do hope he wins.”
M’ri smiled in sympathy, trying to place the resemblance. Then her gaze wandered to the man beside the young girl.
“You are Carey Winthrop!” she exclaimed.