This noise relieves the father's brain. How fortunate it has come. The orator goes up by a rear stairway. He appears on the balcony. There is a cheer that may be heard all over the South Side.
"He looks haggard," says the first citizen.
"You'd look tired if you opened your barrel the way he did," vouchsafes the second citizen.
The orator lifts his voice. It is the proudest moment of his life, he assures them. In this eventful day's work the nation has been offered a guarantee of its welfare. The sanctity of our institutions has been vindicated.
Here the tin-horns, the cat-calls, the drunken congratulations--the whole Babel--rises above the charm of oratory. But the people's idol does not stop. The words roll from his mouth. The form sways, the finger points.
"He's the boy!" "Notice his giblets!" "He will be President--if his barrel lasts." Thus the first, second and third saloon-keepers determine.
There is a revulsion in the crowd. What is the matter at the basement gate?
It is the cook and the housekeeper in contention.
"I tell ye's I'm goin' to fasten it on the door! Such doings as this I never heard of. Oh, Davy, my darlint! Oh! Davy, my darlint!"
The crowd is withdrawing to the opposite curb, But the crush is tremendous. There are ten thousand people in the street. Only those near by know what is happening.