Now he was approaching the end of his discourse and had not named his candidate. They had hung upon every word, had drunk in the golden sentences that thrilled, that satisfied, yet did not reveal the name of the mysterious champion whose candidacy the orator was advocating. As he swung into his peroration, the piqued curiosity of the people had become almost pain. They were ripe for a shrieking chaos of enthusiasm, and he knew it. So, with gathered forces, with flashing eyes and voice that rang like a trumpet, he figuratively fired the powder train.
"And now," he cried, "you are awaiting the announcement of the man whose name among men is one to conjure with; the man, strong, able and of good repute, the man who is no man's man—" with a defiant gesture toward Shaughnessy that awakened tremendous enthusiasm,—"the man whose nomination here today means victory. Gentlemen, it is with pleasure that I nominate for the mayoralty of this city a man known to you all for years, for years the trusted, honored servant of our people; a man of achievement, of renown, of probity, of independence, of superb ability; a man who, under God, will rule for righteousness' sake and wear no man's collar; in a word, that distinguished jurist and gentleman, Judge Rufus Atwell Boynton!"
A roar like many waters followed, a roar like thunderous, storm-driven breakers upon a lonely beach, a roar of exultation. Lulling for a moment, the deafening din broke out afresh, again and again, as if it would never cease. Men cheered till they could no longer cheer, but squawked like chickens; standing with empurpled faces, brandishing their arms, cackling strangely, with ludicrous effort and with distended, bloodshot eyes. The gavel fell in vain; only a cannonade could have been heard in that babel of sound. As soon as the noise abated, through sheer force of physical exhaustion, a vote was railroaded through, the hostile chairman being helpless before the fierce faces and voices of this mob, for such it had become under the electrifying lash of Grady's words. Judge Boynton was nominated by an overwhelming majority, even drawing from the forces pledged to the fortunes of the Shaughnessy candidate. The tumult broke out again.
It was suddenly stilled. O'Byrn, from his chair near the rear, saw a thin white hand raised deprecatingly, marked a sardonic white face and inscrutable eyes, whose owner silently demanded attention. It was yielded with a promptness that was uncanny. Then Shaughnessy, erect in the midst of his ward delegation, spoke. His thin voice with a cold, underlying sneer, cut the air like a knife, penetrating to every corner of the hall.
"The majority rules," said Shaughnessy. "It is customary, in similar case, to move a unanimous nomination. I so move." The deposed boss sat down. The resultant applause was rather faint. Shaughnessy had somehow chilled the enthusiasm.
To Micky O'Byrn, sitting with knitted brows as the other nominations, involving a complete demolition of the Shaughnessy ticket, were hurried through, there was food for much serious thought and conjecturing. He noted the new candidate as he was brought before the convention and introduced, amid great enthusiasm, by Hon. Thomas Grady. He was older than Micky had imagined and he seemed wearied, almost ill. Still, reflected O'Byrn,—as he listened to the candidate's short speech of appreciation and of assurances for the future, in the event of election,—it seemed strange that the Judge should not display more enthusiasm over an honor which had come to him so signally. Then he fell again to pondering, striving to put two and two together.
That the outcome seriously threatened the Fusionist movement was undeniable. In fact, that ticket was as good as defeated already, for it was robbed of an issue. Judge Boynton was a strong candidate, every whit as strong as Theodore Packard and in similar ways. Incredible as it might seem, Shaughnessy had been humiliated, practically kicked out by his party. But how had it happened? Micky frowned. "There's a nigger somewhere," he reflected, "if the coon could only be found."
At the close of the convention Micky was walking thoughtfully down the street toward the office. It was then dusk and the lamps were being lighted. Someone joined Micky and quietly fell into pace with him. O'Byrn glanced up. It was Slade.
"Funny thing that, over at the convention," remarked Micky. "I should have thought Shaughnessy was solid."
"Yes," answered Slade, placidly. "I should have naturally thought he was."