“DeWitt?”
“Sprague, eighteen.”
The chairmen long ago had ceased to poll their delegations or to make the formal announcements they had found so pleasant when they first began. They had long been answering the roll-call in a fixed perfunctory manner, as a bailiff opens court by a formula that has grown meaningless, and will know no change as long as institutions last.
“Logan?”
“Twenty-four for Barrett.”
“Mason?”
“Garwood, eighteen.”
Some of the delegates had strolled to the open windows and stood leaning idly on the sills, looking out on the wonderful morning.
“Moultrie?”
“Fifteen, Sprague.”