“One hundred and twelve gentlemen have voted in the affirmative, forty-eight in the negative, the rules of the House are suspended, and” (the clerk having twice mumbled the title of the bill) “the question is: Shall the bill pass? As many as are of opinion that the bill pass will say Aye, contrary minded No.”
Feet were in the House corridor now, and voices rising there, and noises that must have been scuffling—yes, and beating of door panels. Almost every member was standing, and it seemed as if they were all shouting,—“personal privilege,” “fraud,” “trickery,” “open the doors.” Bijah was slowly squeezing the blood out of William Wetherell's arm.
“The doorkeepers has the keys in their pockets!” Mr. Bixby had to shout, for once.
Even then the Speaker did not flinch. By a seeming miracle he got a semblance of order, recognized his man, and his great voice rang through the hall and drowned all other sounds.
“And on this question a roll-call is ordered. The doorkeepers will close the doors!”
Then, as in reaction, the gallery trembled with a roar of laughter. But Mr. Sutton did not smile. The clerk scratched off the names with lightning rapidity, scarce waiting for the answers. Every man's color was known, and it was against the rules to be present and fail to vote. The noise in the corridors grew louder, some one dealt a smashing kick on a panel, and Wetherell ventured to ask Mr. Bixby if he thought the doors would hold.
“They can break in all they've a mind to now,” he chuckled; “the Truro Franchise is safe.”
“What do you mean?” Wetherell demanded excitedly.
“If a member hain't present when a question is put, he can't git into a roll-call,” said Bijah.
The fact that the day was lost was evidently brought home to those below, for the strife subsided gradually, and finally ceased altogether. The whispers in the gallery died down, the spectators relayed a little. Lovejoy alone remained tense, though he had seated himself on a bench, and the hot anger in which he had come was now cooled into a vindictiveness that set the hard lines of his face even harder. He still clutched the ribbon. The last part of that famous roll-call was conducted so quietly that a stranger entering the House would have suspected nothing unusual. It was finished in absolute silence.