“Mr. Chairman, I move to lay the appeal on the table.”
“The gentleman—from Polk,” said Bailey, “seconded—by the gentleman—from Mason—moves to lay—the appeal—on the table. Aire you ready—for the question? As many—as favor—the motion—will vote—‘Aye’——”
A great volume of “Ayes” rolled from the throats of the Garwood delegates, while the Sprague delegates began to cry:
“Roll-call! Roll-call! Roll-call!”
Randolph had advanced down the aisle until he was opposite Rankin. His mane was tossing savagely, his face was aflame and as he shook his fist at Bailey his lips moved rapidly, though his hot words were lost in the general din. All the while Bailey calmly looked on, and kept up a careless tap, tap, tapping with his gavel. The spectators who had hung in the rear of the court room pressed forward among the delegates. Randolph approached to the very desk and shook his fist under Bailey’s imperturbable, long nose.
“You promised us a roll-call, and you’ve got to be fair and give us a show! If you don’t, damn you, I’ll——”
Bailey hung far over the desk now and said in his drawl:
“Hal Randolph, you damned—little sucker—you, if you don’t go—sit down—and behave yourself—I’ll have—to lam—you one—with this mallet.”
And then he calmly resumed his tapping. After awhile, his persistence won silence, and he slowly wriggled in his ill-fitting garments as if they were really as uncomfortable as they looked.
“The convention—again—will be—in order,” he said.