Wilson was the last speaker to precede him. When he arose, there was a brief applause of politeness, with an extra short outburst from the little handful of fifteen adherents. Every speaker who had gone before him had talked of party harmony. Wilson seized the opportunity of this text to clear up, with one masterly stroke, the dilemma of the “cocked hat” story. After a few happy remarks of acquiescence in the plea for harmony, Wilson turned to Mr. Bryan and, with a really Chesterfieldian gesture, said: “If any one has said anything about any of the other candidates, for which he is sorry, now is the time to apologize,” and made a smiling bow to the Commoner.
The audience broke into spontaneous and sincere applause at this stroke. They appreciated both its manliness and its cleverness; and they sat up with really expectant attention to hear the rest of his address.
Wilson rose to his opportunity. His speech revealed to these men a new power in the party. He made a splendid exposition of the issues before the country, and gave his vision of the remedies with beautiful eloquence and unanswerable logic. The audience progressed from rapt attention to enthusiasm.
All this time I was watching the face of Bryan. I have never seen a more interesting play of expression on the stage than the exhibition which he unconsciously gave. Here was the rising of a new political star, which he well knew meant the setting of his own. His face expressed in turn surprise, alarm, hesitation, doubt, gloom, despair. When Wilson took his seat amidst tremendous applause Bryan’s face was that of a man who had met his Waterloo. He rose like one who was dazed, and made a speech of abdication. He said that the time had come when a new man should be nominated, a man who was free from the asperities of the past, and that he was willing to march in the ranks of the party, and work with the rest of us to help on this victory, which he saw assured. He then started to sit down, but everyone applauded so vigorously, shouting “Go on! Go on!” that he became confused. For once, his political sagacity forsook him: he did not realize that he should stop. He regained his feet, and made a sad anti-climax by telling the diners stories of his observations in the Philippines and elsewhere. The evening was a Wilson triumph.
The effect upon Wilson’s fortune was instantaneous. The next morning our little headquarters was the Mecca of the politicians. Congressmen and Senators and members of the National Committee streamed to our rooms at the Willard. Some came to pledge us their support of Wilson; others to take the measure of his managers. Of the latter class, Senator Stone of Missouri was the most interesting. We saw then how he had earned his title, “Gum Shoe Bill.” He dropped in, so he said, for just a minute’s conversation, as Mrs. Stone was waiting for him in the lobby, where he had promised to rejoin her in a few minutes. He stayed for more than half an hour. He spent that time telling us a very humorous story, which would be worth retelling on its merits if it were printable. It dealt with several whimsical characters in a little town in the Ozarks, and he told it with all the rich embroidery of characterization and dialogue with which the best Southern story tellers elaborate their narratives. It was really a little masterpiece of the raconteur’s art, but it had no pertinence to our serious business. I soon became aware, however, that Stone himself had a serious purpose. All the while he was spinning his story out, to make it longer, his eyes were stealing from one face to another of his auditors, shrewdly appraising their reactions, studying each of them to learn what he could of their characters and foibles. When he finally drew the story to its close, sprung the “nub,” and got a round of laughter, he left, as I felt sure at the moment, with a pretty definite estimate of each of us in his head.
The extraordinary success of Wilson’s Jackson Day speech had its evil effects as well. It made other candidates realize that the man each of them had to beat was Wilson. Thus, all the politicians centred their attacks on him. They ceased their efforts to take delegates away from one another, and allotted to each candidate an undisputed field in the territory where he could help to make a showing. Their plan was to prevent Wilson from coming to the Convention with a large pledged vote.
In the meantime, we devoted our efforts to making Wilson popular among the Democratic press and masses, building up, throughout the country, a sentiment which made him the second choice in nearly every section where a favourite son got a preference with the delegates. Our greatest fear was that one of the two strongest candidates might yield his strength to the other in the hope of defeating Wilson.
Fortunately for us, the logic of the situation made our strategy also the best strategy for Bryan. He and his brother, with their keen political sense, were playing exactly the same game as we were. The result was that every candidate came to the Convention with his full strength, and a determination to use it.
We had other troubles. Repeatedly we faced financial difficulties, and many times the few men of means among us had to go down into their own pockets to make up the deficiency. I had to do so myself, and I leaned heavily on devoted friends of Wilson, like Cleveland H. Dodge, Charles R. Crane, and Abram I. Elkus. Then, too, there were personal differences. I shall never forget when Dudley Field Malone, with his high-powered temperament and his high-flown oratory, burst into my office, exclaiming, “I come with a message from a King to a King!”
“Come to earth, talk English,” I responded.