A crowd had gathered at the Wadsworth station to receive the great man, confident that he would, at least, favour them with one of those scintillating three-minute talks for which he was so famous. So they gathered about the rear platform of his car yelling “Speech! speech!” For a time there was no response, then, finally, the door opened, but it was not the great man who appeared. It was his secretary, looking very white and shaky. He apologized for the great man in a thin and tremulous voice; the trip had been a very trying one, and the great man was suffering from the strain incident to the vigorous campaign he had been waging. He was lying down, endeavouring to get some much-needed rest, recognizing the necessity of saving himself for the final struggle which was to bring New York safe into line and assure an administration whose first effort it would be, etc., etc.
The crowd gave a few subdued cheers and melted away. Then the secretary leaped down the steps of the car and rushed up to Allan, who was watching the process of changing engines.
“Are you in charge here?” asked the secretary.
“I’m putting this special through, if that’s what you mean,” answered Allan.
“Well,” said the secretary, “you’re wanted in the private car at once.”
“Very well,” said Allan, and sprang up the steps behind him.
The great man was half-sitting, half-lying in a large chair. His face was gray and sunken and his eyes strangely bloodshot.
“This is the man in charge,” said the secretary, bringing Allan to a halt before the chair.
“I just want to tell you one thing,” said the great man, hoarsely, lifting a trembling finger, “and that is that if you’re all crazy out here I’m not! The man who brought us over that last stretch of road ought to be in an asylum.”
“We made the ninety miles in ninety minutes,” said Allan, with some pride.