In one corner was a shot-gun; tennis rackets in another; on a chair were snow-shoes and on the desk a sheaf of roses.
Those whom the President had sifted into his office from the crowd outside engaged in conversation. A Senator discussed the ball game with a Supreme Court Justice; a General advised an Author to try deep breathing.
The President returned more animated than before. He placed a hand on Dale's shoulder: "Be comfortable—and stay for lunch; nobody but us."
The crowd paid sudden respect to the homespun citizen of an older day, and a great happiness came into his heart—it was like the unfolding of one of the roses. Not that he was to lunch with the President, though Dale's was the village estimate of human greatness. A vaster issue was before him, and this was a token of success—a success which would bind up his remaining years with peace, and give glorious recompense to the companion of his few joys and many griefs.
The President hurriedly signed his name to parchments.
"I'm making a few postmasters." He smiled toward the sofa. "It's no trouble here—that's all at the other end of the line."
Without stopping the pen, he discussed matters with one statesman after another, his lips snapping with metallic positiveness.
A member of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations protested against the course pursued in Santo Domingo.
"If I were making a world, Senator, I'd try to get along without putting in any Santo Domingos, but as things stand, we must make her be decent or let somebody else do it."
Another brings up the question of taxing incomes and inheritances.