“Of course not,” Randolph flung back at him, “but you might sublet it to me.”
“Well, I might git you a job shovelin’ wind off the Capitol, only I reckon you wouldn’t da’st leave that lucrative law practice o’ yourn, heh?”
The delegates around laughed at the old, old jokes with which they chaffed each other.
“What do you say to unitin’ on Grant here? That speech o’ his t’other day ’uld tease the whole surplus out o’ the treasury.”
Knowlton blushed. Perhaps his heart swelled for a second at the mere thought, for, like all young lawyers, he had his ambitions, with the dome of the Capitol at Washington in the perspective of his dreams.
But the Singed Cat was leaning over the judge’s desk again and his little eyes, out of his thin serious face, swept the circle of chairs before him. His gavel fell.
“The convention—will be—in order,” he said in his penetrating voice. And then he paused and looked solemnly about. “The chair—desires to remind—the convention—” he continued, and the delegates looked up in alarm, “that the administration—at Washington—has redeemed—its promise—of prosperity—to the farmer—by sending—the former—and latter rain—upon the earth—in due season, which shows—what the party—can do—in the way—of keeping promises—when it gets—its hand in.”
The convention laughed. Men were one with all nature in being glad that morning. Then the chairman continued gravely as before:
“Proceeding upon—the regular order—another ballot—for nomination—of a representative—in Congress—will be taken. Gentlemen—will prepare—their ballots, and the secretary—will call—the roll.”
And Hale, for the twelve hundred and sixty-first time, began his monotonous repetition.