“If the brethren—will be—seated—another opportunity—will be afforded them—to rise—for prayers—at a later stage—of the revival.”
The tense quality of the situation was dissipated in a laugh, though all the possibilities hung undischarged, electrically, in the hot atmosphere. A moment longer Bailey waited and then he began his speech. While he spoke, he stood stooped over the desk, holding on to his gavel. He spoke all the way through in those sharp couplets of words, slowly wrought out. He bowed to custom only long enough to make the usual adjurations to the delegates to discharge their high duties faithfully, and he bestowed the customary partisan praise on the state administration and on the national administration. There was applause of course, which he endured calmly, bent over the desk, waiting for it to end. But when these formalities had been observed, he talked to them of common things, like the heat and the corn crop, and he made jokes about the distilleries that lined the Illinois River, and at his solemn sarcasms the crowd laughed.
Rankin was in high good humor. He had found a new man, and his beginning augured well for the success of the convention. When Judge Bailey stopped, there were cries of “Go on! go on!”
But the Singed Cat rapped instantly with his gavel and said:
“The convention—again—will be—in order.”
And the speech was done.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “what is—the further pleasure—of the convention?”
The judge uttered this formality with all parliamentary deference, and the twinkle deep hidden in his eyes showed that the irony of it was apparent to him, even if it was lost on the delegates.
The spell of his quaint oratory having been broken, instantly there was a shuffling of boots, and a dozen men sprang to their feet.
“Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman!” they chorused.