“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: