“Tell it to ’em!” shouted Rich, every time he hit the floor.
“Yes, Lawd, let ’em have it. Dere ain’t no candi-date but Col. Duckery!”
Tiring of this, a Russell man in the back section of the hall roared out: “Five dollars for the man who will pull that long-legged devil down from there.”
No sooner had the offer been made than did a short, stocky, big-headed negro, with a Van Dyke beard, start from the fifth row of seats toward the stand to catch Covington by the leg.
I mounted my chair to see. Having the advantage of the pedestal I could take in everything.
Speaking Henry had charged and jumped and squatted and bounced until his trousers, all too short, had climbed nearly to his knees and his heavy home-knit socks had fallen over his shoe tops. He was about ready to fly when the designing negro reached out for his thin, bare shank.
But there came a turn; Rich Lilly, who had heard the offer and seen the negro start and wend his way to the stage, was guarding the speaker. Just as the Wilmington delegate made a pass at the Dockery speaker, Rich bowed his back, like a Thomas cat, ducked, shot forward and gave him a blow between the eyes and floored him. Speaking Henry never let up. In fact, he never knew what had happened until the convention was over. Rich resumed his antics until he recalled the fact that I was taking notes and then rushed back to where I had dropped into my seat, put his hands on my knees, looked me in the face and asked, seriously: “Say, boss, did I act lak er delegate?”
“Yes, indeed, do it again.”
To my certain knowledge Rich hammered five other delegates after that and came to see if I approved of the manner in which he did it.