Within a very short time the dining-room was well filled with delegates, but neither Bragdon nor Carlisle paid any attention; nor were they seemingly conscious that all eyes were turned upon them. Each was felicitating himself on the turn of events. Then, too, their amiability, as well as their appetites, had no doubt been whetted into keenest activity by the cocktails.
Ben Bragdon, after breakfast, gave orders that the Hon. W. Henry Carlisle was to be made both temporary and permanent chairman, and Carlisle likewise announced that the Hon. Ben Bragdon was to be nominated as senatorial candidate by acclamation; and each issued his instructions in such a matter-of-fact, yet stubbornly blunt fashion, that no one offered any objection or asked any questions.
The delegates looked at each other, nudged one another in the ribs and indulged in many a sly wink of suppressed amusement. But they all quickly recognized the political advantage insured by a coalition of the Bragdon and Carlisle forces, and the utter dismay this would cause in the camp of the Democrats. Therefore they all became “programme” men and took their orders meekly. So when the convention finally met and got down to business with Carlisle presiding, it at once proceeded to nominate Ben Bragdon by a unanimous vote.
Seemingly everybody cheered on the slightest provocation and everybody was in excellent good nature, and after the convention had completed its labors and adjourned, it was conceded to have been one of the most harmonious political gatherings ever held in the state. Thus was the prediction of Earle Clemens, the newspaper scribe, fulfilled to the very letter.
The convention over, the delegates drifted back to the Ferris House and not long after Big Phil Lee called at Clemens’ room. The editor was picking away at his typewriter, preparing a report for the columns of his paper. Grant Jones, Roderick Warfield, and two or three others were in the room, smoking and talking. But Clemens paid no attention, so intent was he on his work. Big Phil Lee, who without doubt had been Bragdon’s loudest shouter, said: “Say, Clemens, I compliment you on your prophetic editorials. I reckon you are writing another one. You said the convention would be harmonious, and how in the demnition bow-wows your prophecy happened to come true nobody knows. But it did.”
“Thanks,” replied Clemens, in his light-hearted jovial way, and then looking out of the window for a moment, added: “I say, Lee, don’t it beat hell what a little clever horse sense will accomplish at times in a political convention?”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Big Phil, quickly. “You seem to be posted. By gad! I think it’s high time I was taken into the inner councils myself and had the seemingly inexplainable made clear to me.”
“Search me,” replied Clemens in a subdued voice, as he bit the tip of another cigar and struck a match. “Neither Bragdon nor Carlisle has invited me into any of their secret conferences.”
Big Phil Lee looked a bit incredulous, shook his head in a nonplussed sort of way and said: “Well, so long, boys. I’m goin’ down to the hotel parlor where Bragdon is holding his reception. They are falling over one another congratulating Carlisle about as much as they are Bragdon.”
As the door closed behind him, Clemens looked up from his typewriter and said to Grant Jones, laughingly: “Say, Grant, remember what the Good Book says?”