“What?” I said.
“Tune. Sharon is for free silver.”
“Do you think they will catch your allusion?” I asked him.
“No. But I have a way of enjoying a thing by myself.” And he pumped away, playing with tasteful variations until the hall was full and the singing-class assembled in gloves and ribbons.
They opened the ceremonies for us by rendering “Sweet and Low” very happily; and I trusted it was an omen.
Sharon was hearty, and we had “Sweet and Low” twice. Then the speaking began, and the speakers were welcomed, coming and going, with mild and friendly demonstrations. Nothing that one would especially mark went wrong until Reuben Gadsden. He strode to the middle of the boards, and they creaked beneath his tread. He stood a moment in large glittering boots and with hair flat and prominently watered. As he straightened from his bow his suspender-buttons came into view, and remained so for some singular internal reason, while he sent his right hand down into the nearest pocket and began his oratory.
“It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France,” he said, impressively, and stopped.
We waited, and presently he resumed:
“It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France.” He took the right hand out and put the left hand in.
“It is sixteen or seventeen years,” said he, and stared frowning at his boots.