as to say. They did not need the spoken
name.

That convention had been ripening for a stampede. Its component
delegates had contained the stampede fever for weeks before they
assembled. Men leaped and screamed. It was a storm of enthusiasm; two
thousand feet furnished the thunder-roar; hats went up and came down
like pelting rain; and voices bellowed like the bursting wind volleys of
the gale.

Here and there, gesticulating men were trying to make seconding
speeches, but the words were lost. The chairman of the convention, grim
and pale and wondering just how much damage this overturn signified to
his personal interests, nodded recognition to these speakers, and
allowed them to waste their words upon the welter of mere sound.

He also recognized other men who arose. He knew them for Spinney's
adherents and divined what they were trying to say. And having divined
it, he was promptly inspired to get in with the rush of those who were
climbing aboard the band-wagon.

He advanced to the edge of the platform, and by tossing his arms secured
a moment of silence. He had his own salvation to look after.

"I am glad, inexpressibly pleased, that as chairman of your convention I
can now declare myself for General Waymouth; for the convention has but
one name before it--the name of Arba Spinney has been withdrawn!"

When the tumult began again--almost delirium this time--David Everett
appeared from the wings, white, stricken, overwhelmed by the suddenness
with which the prize had been snatched beyond his reach, driven out upon
the stage by the State Committee like a whipped cur forced to perform
his little trick in public. He began to speak, but the delegates did not
listen--they knew what he was saying, and were cheering him. Not all of
it was enthusiasm for General Waymouth; men instantly realized that a
nasty split in the party had been bridged; men felt that in this new
candidate both factions had the ownership that puts one "in right." A
united party could now march to the polls.

The nomination was by acclamation!

They came to General Waymouth, where he stood patiently at the door of
his room--the committee appointed to escort him before the convention.
He signalled for them to precede him--his hand was inside the arm of
Harlan Thornton, and he did not withdraw it even to shake the eager
hands that were outstretched. He walked upon the stage with the young
man, and, still holding his arm, faced the hurricane of ent