Steve arose, lifted the child above his head.
“Look at him, folks,” he said; “he’s secondin’ the nomination of Zaanan Frame.”
He turned, now leading the boy, descended from the platform, passed down the aisle toward the rear of the hall. The child’s coat brushed Moran’s sleeve, unconscious of whom it passed. Moran shrank away from the touch.
Nobody spoke, nobody moved, save Moran. He leaped to his feet, face working with rage, with shame, with the ignominy of it.
“It’s a lie!” he shouted.
“It’s the truth!” Steve Gilders said over his shoulder.
In the gallery a woman stood. She pointed downward to an individual on the floor.
“Tom Samson,” she said, shrilly, “you’re goin’ to vote now. Vote right or don’t come home to me.”
Another woman dared equally. “You, too, George Perkins.”
Woman after woman was on her feet, singling out her man, letting him hear her voice in this matter.