Since an early hour of the evening the people had been gathering at the Rink. It was also the Opera-House, where, during the winter months, an occasional repertory company appeared in “East Lynn,” the “New Magdalen,” or Tom Robertson's “Caste.” The place was two-thirds full at a quarter to eight, when a fleet courier arrived with the gratifying news that the procession was just leaving the square, and that Kenyon was riding with his hat off, and in familiar discourse with Stokes and Bentick.
Presently out of the distance drifted the first strains of the band. A little later Cap. Roberts and the Hon. Jeb Barrows appeared on the make-shift stage from the wings. There was an applausive murmur, for the Hon. Jeb was a popular character. It was said of him that he always carried a map of the United States in tobacco juice on his shirt front. He was bottle-nosed and red faced. No man could truthfully say he had ever seen him drunk, nor had any one ever seen him sober. He shunned extremes. Next, the band filed into the balcony, and was laboriously sweating its way through the national anthem, when Kenyon and Ryder appeared, followed by the wretched Stokes and Bentick. A burst of applause shook the house. When it subsided, the editor stepped to the front of the stage. With words that halted, for the experience was a new one, he introduced the guest of the evening.
It was generally agreed afterwards that it had been a great privilege to hear Kenyon. No one knew exactly what it was all about, but that was a minor consideration. The Congressman was well on towards the end of his speech, and had reached the local situation, which he was handling in what the Herald subsequently described as “a masterly fashion, cool, logical, and convincing,” when Oakley wandered in, and, unobserved, took a seat near the door. He glanced about him glumly. There had been a time when these people had been, in their way, his friends. Now those nearest him even avoided looking in his direction. At last he became conscious that some one far down near the stage, and at the other side of the building, was nodding and smiling at him. It was Dr. Emory. Mrs. Emory and Constance were with him. Dan caught the fine outline of the latter's profile. She was smiling an amused smile. It was her first political meeting, and she was finding it quite as funny as Ryder had said it would be.
Dan listened idly, hearing only a word now and then. At length a sentence roused him. The speaker was advising the men to stand for their rights. He rose hastily, and turned to leave; he had heard enough; but some one cried out, “Here's Oakley,” and instantly every one in the place was staring at him.
Kenyon took a step nearer the foot-lights. Either he misunderstood or else he wished to provoke an argument, for he said, with slippery civility: “I shall be very pleased to listen to Mr. Oakley's side of the question. This is a free country, and I don't deny him or any man the right to express his views. The fact that I am unalterably opposed to the power he represents is no bar to the expression here of his opinion.”
Oakley's face was crimson. He paused irresolutely; he saw the jeer on Ryder's lips, and the desire possessed him to tell these people what fools they were to listen to the cheap, lungy patriotism of the demagogue on the stage.
He rested a hand on the back of the chair in front of him, and leaned forward with an arm extended at the speaker, but his eyes were fixed on Miss Emory's face. She was smiling at him encouragingly, he thought, bidding him to speak.
“This is doubtless your opportunity,” he said, “but I would like to ask what earthly interest you have in Antioch beyond the votes it may give you?”
Kenyon smiled blandly and turned for one fleeting instant to wink at Ryder. “And my reply is this: What about the twenty-million-dollar specimen of American manhood who is dodging around London on the money he's made here in this State—yes, and in this town? He's gone to England to break his way into London society, and, incidentally, to marry his daughter to a title.”
A roar of laughter greeted this sally.