THE convention assembled at two o’clock, though with the only conspicuous deliberation that our deliberative bodies display, it was half-past two before Judge Bailey brought it to order by a crack of his gavel. The sun had seemed to hang still on the meridian. The white cloud that had mounded itself on the horizon in the early morning had slowly and majestically inflated all the day, until it covered the whole of the western sky, where it flashed in the focalized rays of the sun. Far down at the base of the pile of cloud, an ominous blackness was spreading, so that the farmers of the various delegations, trudging along the sidewalks toward the court house, with their waistcoats unfastened and their coats on their arms, prophesied rain, and, drawn out of the differences of factional feeling into the brotherhood of husbandry, they welcomed it with reciprocal felicitations for the common good it would do their corn. When they reached the court house, the heat was stifling; the day seemed to stand still with the sun, and the air they breathed fairly scorched their nostrils.
The report of the committee on credentials was received; there were no contests. The report of the committee on resolutions was read, and the platform, in the wider partisanship that momentarily swallowed up factionalism, applauded. And then Jim Rankin read the report of the committee on permanent organization. The report recommended that the temporary organization be made permanent.
The sun and the day had seemed to stop, now time itself paused, for the moment had come. The fanning delegates stiffened in their hard chairs and became silent. The heavy air hung heavier still with suspense. The sun, flaming in through the tall western windows of the old court room, fell upon the worn boards of the floor till they smoked faintly and seemed likely to ignite under the pitiless fire.
Rankin stood in the very front, near the chairman’s desk, his coat off, his hair curled close and shining with the perspiration that glistened on brow and face. He took his cigar from his lips and raised his big arm in its moist shirt sleeve, toward Bailey, who leaned wearily, almost sleepily, over the desk. Rankin’s heavy voice broke the stillness.
“Mr. Chairman!” he said, “I move the adoption of the report.”
Randolph meanwhile had arisen slowly, carefully, as if he feared any noise he made would mar the situation.
“The gentleman—from Polk,” drawled Bailey, as if the whole thing wearied him, “seconded—by the gentleman—from—ah—Tazewell, moves the adoption—of the—report. Aire you ready—for the—”
“Mr. Chairman,” said Randolph, heavily and deliberately, “Mr. Chairman,” he repeated, knotting his brows under the mane that hung down to meet them.
“The gentleman—from Moultrie,” sighed Bailey.
The delegates leaned forward, intent in their surprise that Bailey had even recognized the Sprague leader.