The Transgressors. Story of a Great Sin. A Political Novel of the Twentieth Century

by Francis A. Adams

CHAPTER XV.

CHOOSING A LEADER.

Chicago, the city of immeasurable possibilities, the twice risen Phoenix, scene of the fairyland of 1893, when the wonders of the world were assembled for the fleeting admiration of man, is the arena in which a battle is to be waged that shall be remembered when the other events that add to the fame of the municipality shall have passed into oblivion.

To the citizens of Chicago a convention has come to be regarded as an every-day occurrence. If it is not a convention of one of the great parties, then some lesser body is in session; always some band of delegates is reported as either arriving in or departing from the city. There had been little stir when the Plutocratic convention was in progress three weeks before. The result of the proceedings was foreordained.

But with the convening of the delegates of the Independence Party the apathy of the people gives way to intense interest. They realize that at least there will be a lively contest over the choice of a leading candidate.

Political forecasters have been chary of expressing opinions, for the much depended on precedent is lacking. Here is a new party, which is to make its second appeal to the people. Where its strength will lay, whom it will select to be the standard-bearer of its radical platform, these are questions that baffle the most astute observers.

The morning of the opening session of the convention finds the vast auditorium of the Music Hall where the meetings are to be held, crowded with spectators. It is impossible for one-tenth of those present to hear the speakers; they come not to hear so much as to breathe the surcharged air of the political storm which it is known will be fostered. The thin blood of the modern civilian is acted upon by less boisterous and gory scenes than those which sufficed to stir the audiences of the Roman circus; yet the human susceptibilities are the same in all ages, and differ only in expression. In the battle of voices, the audience will shout its approval or hiss its disapproval; at the pleasure of the throng a speaker can be silenced, his victory snatched from his very grasp.

Six thousand people are in their places by ten o'clock. The police have been compelled to shut the doors to exclude the crowds who would be satisfied merely to get inside of the building. A murmur fills the place, although no one is speaking above the normal tone; the combined sound resembles the distant boom of a cataract. Here and there in the galleries a splash of color indicates the presence of a woman. The value of feminine headgear is for once clearly demonstrated; it serves to differentiate the sexes.

On the floor of the auditorium the long avenues of chairs are vacant; a dozen men are busy arranging the location of the state delegations. Guidons bearing the names of the states are put in position. At the press tables, at the foot of the speakers' platform, hundreds of reporters are industriously grinding out "copy" for their papers. A formidable army of messenger boys is lined up along the base of the platform. They are a reserve, to be used in case the telegraph service should break down.

Immediately in the rear of the speaker's table is the indispensable adjunct of American politics, the brass band. At 10.15 o'clock the leader of the band gives a signal, and the "Star Spangled Banner" is played, six thousand voices joining in the best known phases and the chorus.