on busily.
The speaker declared each motion carried with glib voice.

At last a special order brought up an unfinished debate upon some
matter, and the five minute rule was enforced.

"You're in luck," said Radbourn. "The whole procession is going to pass
before you."

As the debate went on he pointed out the great men whose names
suggested history to Bradley and whose actual presence amazed him.
There was Amos B. Tripp, whom Radbourn said resembled "a Chinese
god"--immense, featureless, bald, with a pout on his face like an
enormous baby. The "watch dog of the house," Major Hendricks, was tall,
thin, with the voice and manner of an old woman. His eyes were
invisible, and his chin-beard wagged up and down as he shouted in high
tenor his inevitable objection.

An old man with abundant hair, blue-white under the perpendicular
light, arose at the back part of the room, making a fine picture
outlined against the deep red screen. His manner was courtly, his ruddy
face pleasing, his voice musical and impassioned.

"He's the dress parade orator of the house," observed Radbourn.

"I like him," said Bradley, leaning forward to absorb the speaker's
torrent of impassioned utterance. When he sat down the members
applauded.

Most of the orators conformed to types familiar to Bradley. There was
the legal type, monotonously emphatic, with extended forefinger, which
pointed, threatened and delineated. His speaking wore on the ear like a
saw-filing. Then there was the political speaker, the stump orator, who
was full of well-worn phrases, who could not mention the price of wool
or the number of cotton bales without using the ferocious throaty-snarl
of a beast of prey.

He was followed by the clerical type, a speaker who used the most
mournful cadences in correcting the gentleman on his left as to the
number of cotton bales. His voice and manner formed a distinct
reflection of the mournful preacher, and the tune of his high voice had
the power of calling up the exact phraseology of sermons--"Repent, my
lost brother, ere it be too late," "Prepare for the last great day, my
brother," while he actually asserted the number of cotton bales had
been grossly over-stated by the gentleman from Alabama.

On going down the stairs, Radbourn called his attention to the
paintings, hanging here and there, which he called "hideous daubs" with
the reckless presumption of a born realist to whom allegory was a
personal affront. Radbourn showed