“Shall I name him?” he gasped. “Shall I name this peerless son of old Logan, who in every hour of public need has been ready to answer the call of public duty? He is known to you all, he is known to every one in the seven counties that comprise this agricultural empire of the Thirteenth District. Aye, his fame has spread beyond her confines, it is written on the pages where are enrolled the glorious names of those who fought the nation’s battles, it is emblazoned in the fair temple of civic triumph. We bring you a leader, Mr. Chairman, to harmonize all your differences, to cement the grand old party for another mighty onward march to victory, who will plant your flag as he has planted that proud emblem of a free people, the glorious stars and stripes, on the ramparts of the routed and flying enemy. Nominate him, gentlemen, and in the Ides of November, when the ballots come
“‘down as still
As snow-flakes fall upon the sod;
But execute a freeman’s will
As lightning does the will of God,’
he will be found to have been elected.”
And Knowlton sank into his chair, gasping for breath, his chest heaving with the violence of his exertion. The delegates looked at him and at one another a moment in surprise, and then they began to cry all at once:
“What’s his name?”
“You didn’t name him!”
“Give us his name!”
“Name him!”
Knowlton sprang to his feet; for an instant he stood and looked helplessly around. His face flamed a deeper crimson and he said in a hoarse, tired voice:
“Our candidate, gentlemen—his name is General William M. Barrett.”