The day before the date on which the election was to take place they moved on to Boston. When they were established in a comfortable hotel, their Gloucester friend asked to be allowed to introduce the gentleman who was being brought forward, without any effort upon his part, as the choice for President of the anti-Van Swell faction, to which the Landons rightfully belonged.
Now when the army of reporters saw the stranger going up in tow of the Gloucester man, they knew that the pink-tea people were beaten, for Landon’s vote was sure to elect—it was the balance of power.
“This is Mr. McGuire, Miss Landon,” said the Gloucester man.
McGuire, who was utterly indifferent to most people and most things in this world, was visibly affected. Miss Landon, who had fainted but once, clutched at the back of her chair. McGuire, finding his voice and feet, stepped forward, saying, in far-away, tremulous tones, like a man talking in his sleep, “I think I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Landon.”
The Gloucester man managed to rally from his surprise and introduced “Auntie,” who until now had not seen the distinguished railroader.
“Is it possible?” Miss Landon heard herself say right to the man’s face.
At this moment a street piano under their windows broke loose with the then raging popular air:—
“Arrah, Patsy! git up f’om th’ fire,
An’ guv th’ mon a sate; ,
Can’t ye see that it’s Misther McGuire,