And his speech was almost as elongated as the garment aforesaid, largely composed of complacent references to the prosperity the town had enjoyed as the product of his own. Surreptitious hints to the effect that only the commercially successful should aspire to municipal honours were not wanting. "It's a poor assurance that a man can manage public affairs, if he can't look after his own successfully," he said, as David sat meekly listening; "and," he went on in a sudden burst of feeling, hastening to the conclusion of his speech, "I may, I think, fairly claim to have been a successful man. And I won't deny that I'm proud of it. But, fellow citizens, nothing in all this world could give me so great pride as to be elected the first chief-magistrate of this growing town. I've known something of life's honours," he declared grandiloquently, "and I've mingled some with the great ones of the earth; at least," hesitating a little, "I did when I was a child. And just here I'll tell you a little incident that I can never refer to without feeling my heart beat high with pride." (Mr. Craig had no little fluency as a public speaker when he discoursed of things concerning himself.) "As many of you know, my father was a gentleman of leisure—and he travelled widely. Well, I can still recall one winter we spent in Spain—I was but a child—but I can remember being at a great public meeting in Madrid. Some members of the Royal family were there," he declared, as he paused to see the effect on the gaping sons of toil, "and I remember, as if it were but yesterday, how, when the Infanta was going down the aisle and I was standing gazing up into her face, she laid her hand upon my boyish head as she passed me. I'll not deny, fellow citizens, that that touch has been sacred to me ever since—but I say to the working-men before me to-night that I consider it a greater honour to hold the horny hand of the working-man, the hands that will mark the ballots that shall bring me the crowning honour of my life," and the candidate gathered up the folds of his spreading coat as he resumed his seat, smiling benignly down upon the rather unresponsive crowd.
For many of his auditors were decidedly in the dark as to the source of this honour that had befallen him in ancient Spain.
"What kind of a animal was that, Tom, that tetched him on the head?" one bronzed toiler asked of his companion as he still gazed, bewildered rather, on the reclining Mr. Craig. "Did he say a elephant—sounded summat like that anyhow, didn't it?"
"No, no," the other answered, a little impatiently; "what would elephants be doin' at a public meetin'? He said 'twas a infantum—I heard him myself."
"What's a infantum?" the first persisted earnestly.
"Oh—well. Well, it's a kind of a baby—only it's feminine," he explained learnedly. "An' I think it's got somethin' to do wi' the cholery—don't talk, there's Mr. Borland gettin' up. Hurrah," he shouted, joining in the general chorus, and glad of this very opportune escape.
David began very haltingly. Yet he could not but feel the cordiality of his welcome; and his glance, at first rather furtive and shy, became more confident as he gradually felt the ground beneath his feet. "I ain't much used to public speakin'," he started hesitatingly; "never made but one speech like this before. They were a little obstreperous when I began, but before I got through you could have—have heard a crowbar drop," he affirmed, to the delight of his audience. "I can't sling it off like my friend Mr. Craig, here; mebbe it's because I've not moved in them royal circles," he ventured as soberly as he could. "Though I think I've got him beat when it comes to rubbin' noses with the quality. I've done a little in that line myself—when I was a little shaver, too. None o' them royal folks ever patted me on the head—but I threw up all over Abe Lincoln once. Old Abe used to stop at my father's in Peoria when he was ridin' the circuit," David explained carefully; "an' once he picked me up—I was jest a baby—an' threw me up to the ceilin'; then I done the same when I came down—too soon after dinner, you see," he added, his words lost in the mirth that stormed about him. "But other ways, I ain't what you'd call a successful man, I reckon," he went on, the quotation obvious. "I've always been kind o' scared, ever since I was a young fellow, for fear I'd be too successful—that is, the way some folks reckon success. I knew a terrible successful man in Illinois one time—he was that successful that he got richer than any other man in the county. An' he got so fond o' bein' successful that he nearly gave up eatin'—jest to be more successful. He got that fond of it that by and by he wouldn't even spend the money for gettin' his hair cut; he used to soak his head, in the winter, an' then stand outside till it froze stiff—then he'd break it off. He was a terrible successful man, to his way o' thinkin'," David went on gravely, the crowd rocking to and fro in a spasm of delight. "So I think, my friends, I'd better jest own up I've been a failure. An' I thank you, more'n I can say, for wantin' me to be your first mayor—but I'm goin' to sit back quiet an' give some better man the job. For one thing, I'm gettin' to be an old man—an' that's a disease that don't heal much. Besides, I'll have enough to do to make a livin'. I won't deny I used to wake up nights an' think it'd be fine to be the first boss o' the whole town; but I reckon it ain't comin' my way—it ain't intended to be wove into my web, by the looks o' things. But I thank you for—for your love," David blurted out, vainly searching for a better word. "An' what kind o' gives me a lump in my throat, is the way I see how the men that used to work for me is the loyalest to me now. That's terrible rich pay—an' I can stand here to-night an' say, afore God an' man, that I've tried to be more a friend than a boss. Your joys has been my joys, an' your sorrows has been my sorrows," his voice quivering a little as he spoke the gracious words; "an' I ain't disgraced—if I did get beat in business. This here's far sweeter to me now than if it'd come my way when I was livin' in the big house, wadin' round knee-deep in clover. It's when a fellow's down he loves to find out how many true friends he's got; any old torn umbrella's just as good as a five dollar one—till the rain's peltin' down on him—an' then he knows the difference. So I can't do nothin' but thank you all, an' tell you how glad you've made me. I'll be all right," he concluded with heroic bearing, "I'll get my bite an' my sup, an' I'll go down to my rest in peace; an' I'm richer—far richer than I ever thought. It's friends that make a fellow rich; an' I intend keepin' them as long as I live—an' after, too," he concluded, turning from his chair to add the words, electrical in their effect.
Then came a scene, such a scene as gladdens the heart of but one man in a generation. All sorts and conditions of men joined in the storm of protest, refusing to permit David to withdraw his name. Many, mostly toil-stained working-men, struggled for the floor. Testimonies came thick and fast, volunteered with glowing ardour.
"He never used to pass my little girl on the street without givin' her a nickel or a dime—most always a dime," a burly blacksmith roared, his voice as powerful as his muscle.
"Mr. Borland kept me on when times was hard," an old man proclaimed in a squeaky voice; "he kept me mowin' the grass four times a week, when everythin' was burnt up wi' the drooth."