President Cleveland slowly turned his eyes upon me.
He also saw what I had in my hand, and said in a husky voice:
“Wait a moment, please.”
He searched his coat pocket, and presently found a piece of paper on which some words were written.
He laid this on his desk and rose to his feet, raised one hand above him, and said in deep tones:
“I die for Free Trade, my country, and—and—all that sort of thing.”
I saw him jerk a string, and a camera snapped on another table, taking our picture as we stood.
“Don’t die in the House, Mr. President,” I said. “Go over into the Senate Chamber.”
“Peace, murderer!” he said. “Let your bomb do its deadly work.”
“I’m no bum,” I said, with spirit. “I represent The Rolling Stone, of Austin, Texas, and this I hold in my hand does the same thing, but, it seems, unsuccessfully.”