“Who is it?” the old man inquired, feebly.
“Foraker! Foraker!” bellowed the crowd.
“He’s nominated him!” muttered the old man; but this time he did not attempt to rise. With a smile of great content he leaned against his granddaughter’s strong young frame and listened, while the cheers swelled into a deafening din, an immeasurable tumult of sound, out of which a few strong voices shaped the chorus of the Battle Cry of Freedom, to be caught up by fifteen thousand throats and pealed through the walls far down the city streets to the vast crowd without.
The young Reed “boomer,” carried away by the moment, flung his free hand above his head and yelled defiantly: “Three cheers for the man from Maine!” Instantly he caught at his wits, his color turned, and he lifted an abashed face to the young girl.
“But, really, you know, that ain’t giving nothing away,” he apologized, plucking up heart. “May I do it again?”
The old partisan’s eye lighted. “Now they’re shouting! That’s like old times! Yes, do it again, boy! Blaine! Blaine! James G. Blaine!”
He let us lead him to the carriage, the rapturous smile still on his lips. The “rooter” and I wormed our way through the crowd back to the seats which the kind Canton man had kept for us.
We were quite like old acquaintances now; and he turned to me at once, “Was there ever a politician or a statesman, since Henry Clay, loved so well as James G. Blaine?”