“The gentleman—from Polk; seconded by the gentleman from Tazewell, moves—that a committee—on credentials—consisting—of one delegate—from each county—be appointed—by the chair. As many—as favour—the motion—will say—”
“Mr. Chairman!” Randolph was advancing toward the desk with uplifted arm, his face was very red and already streaming with perspiration. “Mr. Chairman!” he yelled. “It has always been the custom in this district for the delegates to retire by counties and to select their own members for each committee. I move you, sir, as a substitute—”
“The gentleman—from Moultrie,” drawled Bailey, “is out—of order. Those of you—who favor—the motion—of the gentleman from Polk—will say—‘Aye.’”
A mighty chorus of “Ayes!” swelled up from the mass of delegates.
“Those opposed—‘No.’”
Another heavy, deep-throated volume of “Noes” burst forth. Instantly Bailey swung his heavy gavel to his ear, and he said, though still in that deliberate way of his:
“The ayes—seem—to have it, the ayes—have it, and the motion is adopted.”
Then his gavel fell. And as the storm broke upon him, he stood with the weak stoop in his back, and looked down on the three score and more of angry men who were howling at him. His face never showed sign of emotion, but with his small eyes blinking slowly, his thin lips closed, he looked at them, and then began a slow, monotonous, persistent tap, tap, tap of the gavel.
“The convention—again—will be—in order,” he drawled, tapping with his gavel all the while. “The convention—again—will be—in order.”
At last the storm wore out, and Randolph, and two or three of his men gathered in a little knot. After they had held their disheveled heads together in counsel for awhile, Randolph raised his hand, and hushed his delegates, and said, when he had stilled the clamor: