That convention had been ripening for a stampede. Its component delegates had contained the stampede fever for weeks before they assembled. Men leaped and screamed. It was a storm of enthusiasm; two thousand feet furnished the thunder-roar; hats went up and came down like pelting rain; and voices bellowed like the bursting wind volleys of the gale.
Here and there, gesticulating men were trying to make seconding speeches, but the words were lost. The chairman of the convention, grim and pale and wondering just how much damage this overturn signified to his personal interests, nodded recognition to these speakers, and allowed them to waste their words upon the welter of mere sound.
He also recognized other men who arose. He knew them for Spinney's adherents and divined what they were trying to say. And having divined it, he was promptly inspired to get in with the rush of those who were climbing aboard the band-wagon.
He advanced to the edge of the platform, and by tossing his arms secured a moment of silence. He had his own salvation to look after.
"I am glad, inexpressibly pleased, that as chairman of your convention I can now declare myself for General Waymouth; for the convention has but one name before it—the name of Arba Spinney has been withdrawn!"
When the tumult began again—almost delirium this time—David Everett appeared from the wings, white, stricken, overwhelmed by the suddenness with which the prize had been snatched beyond his reach, driven out upon the stage by the State Committee like a whipped cur forced to perform his little trick in public. He began to speak, but the delegates did not listen—they knew what he was saying, and were cheering him. Not all of it was enthusiasm for General Waymouth; men instantly realized that a nasty split in the party had been bridged; men felt that in this new candidate both factions had the ownership that puts one "in right." A united party could now march to the polls.
The nomination was by acclamation!
They came to General Waymouth, where he stood patiently at the door of his room—the committee appointed to escort him before the convention. He signalled for them to precede him—his hand was inside the arm of Harlan Thornton, and he did not withdraw it even to shake the eager hands that were outstretched. He walked upon the stage with the young man, and, still holding his arm, faced the hurricane of enthusiasm until it had blown itself out.
It was a breathless hush in which he spoke.
"Our party, in State Convention assembled, has to-day declared for honesty." They did not exactly understand, but they gave voice like hounds unleashed. That sentiment complimented them. "I pledge the last strength of my old age to the task you have imposed upon me. Give me your pledge, man to man, in return. Shall it be for all of us: honesty in principle and unswerving obedience to every party profession we make? I await your 'Yes'!"