17 The Convention

A convention in the Old Fourth, as well as any other district of this State, is more than a political occasion; it is also social and sportive, or, at times, it may even have a religious colour, becoming, in short, a festive event, tinged now and then with solemnity, and an underlying, but never forgotten serious purpose. They develop, too, the variety and humour of life in a State, rich in all these respects, and hence everybody except the defeated candidates, who are supposed not to complain, enjoys them.

But no one of this generation remembered a convention in the Old Fourth which excited so much interest as the one now about to be called to order. It contained the elements likely to excite keen curiosity and a desire to attend: Warner’s peculiar position, the uncertainty of his course, the angry shadow of the Prohibitionists hovering over them, and the well-known fact that the whole fate of the next Congress might turn upon this convention. Guthrie had a talk with Warner on the eve of it, but he could get from him no promise.

He reported this lack of success again at the Ransome house, and his look was disconsolate as he made his report. But Clarice spoke cheerfully.

“I believe that you will succeed yet, Mr. Guthrie,” she said, and Guthrie gave her a grateful glance. Her faith in him reacted upon him, and gave him self-confidence.

Carton was in the city again, having decided to attend the convention in the Fourth, which would be of absorbing interest to every public man in the State, and he said to Guthrie: “The party in this State already owes you a great deal—I need not speak of myself again, and how much I owe you—and, to tell you the truth, you seem to be the chief reliance in this affair. Now what do you expect if you succeed in it?”

It was the same question that Clarice Ransome had asked him more than once, and the coincidence struck Guthrie.

“The Washington bureau of the Times has been promised to me,” he replied, “and I tell you, Philip Carton, that if you get on the wrong side in Congress I shall say so.”

“I sincerely hope that you will get what you want, Billy,” said Carton with emphasis.

Guthrie, although deeply disappointed by Warner’s actions, was forced to be resigned and await the course of events in the convention itself.

It was said that Warner would be present on the floor of the convention, a proceeding unusual in a candidate—quite contrary to the code of political ethics, as practised throughout the State—and it was certain that the delegations from the eleventh and twelfth wards would be composed almost wholly of his friends.

Guthrie ascertained also that Pursley was working incessantly in Warner’s favour, although he was very quiet about it, as his support, while the cloud of scandal still rested upon him, was a doubtful asset. Guthrie knew that Pursley cared nothing for Warner, but was merely carrying on an agitation against those in power, hoping to profit by a revolution.

Templeton, too, appeared in the city, and was often with Pursley. All that Guthrie had foreseen was coming to pass—Templeton was sinking lower and lower.

The convention met early in the morning of a beautiful June day—one of those days that are not so rare in June in this State. Guthrie, from his seat at the press table on the stage in Music Hall, where the conventions always meet, could see through the rear windows, between the clefts of houses far across the wide, yellow river, to the hills, now clad in a deeper green. There all was peace and beauty, and he thought, with a half-smile, of the stormy times so soon to come on the floor here before him.

The earliness of the hour set for the opening of the convention did not keep the people from pouring into the hall before then. It is a great hall, the largest in the State, with an immense auditorium, two balconies above and eight boxes, but it was soon apparent that every seat would be taken. The boxes were filled with prominent men and their feminine relatives.

In one, sat the familiar “governor’s group,” the Governor and his wife, Mary Pelham, Clarice Ransome, Mrs. Dennison, Mr. Carton, Mr. Ransome, and Mr. Pike, now the pension commissioner. Mrs. Ransome had refused to come, saying that the affair did not interest her, but General and Mrs. Pelham were present.

Deep as was the political interest in this convention, it was evident at once that the social phase would not be inferior. The city is famous for its pretty girls, and they are seen at their best in May and June, when they come out in thin, white or light-coloured dresses. Then, indeed, is the poet’s simile of a “garden of girls” most fit. They were thick in the hall—everywhere except in the space railed off for the delegates, and there was not one who did not carry flowers or roses in her hair, or on her dress, in addition to those in her cheeks. The great hall was alive with vivid, beautiful, and varied colours, now contrasting, now blending into one harmonious whole.

It seemed like a vast bouquet to Guthrie, sitting modestly at the back of the stage, and looking toward the crowd, and it gave him a deep sense of pleasure and of pride. This was his district and his State, and these were his people. The convention rose before him, terrace on terrace of colour, but the crowd, nevertheless, still thickened, always seeking room for one more. Guthrie saw Warner slip in under the cover of his friends, and take a seat in the centre of the delegation from the twelfth ward, where his presence was not discovered, until he had been there some time, and thus the force of the blow was broken. Then an angry buzz of comment arose and filled the hall, but it soon died, because the convention was about to open, and Warner could not be permitted to occupy its attention now for any long period. Moreover, the great men were fast arriving, and they always came in state, a state which often they did not intend, but which the public enforced.

There were the two United States Senators, men of really large calibre, mentally as well as physically, and well-known throughout the nation, and Mr. Stetson, more famous than either, and an ex-governor of the State with a bushy white head of hair, who had been a famous Confederate general, and another ex-governor of the State, also with a bushy white head of hair, who had been a famous Federal general. After these came the member from the Third District, a tall man with a smoothly shaven, classic face who was serving his third term as Speaker of the House, an office which the people of this State rank next to the presidency itself, and they shared, therefore, in the glory which the member from the Third shed about him. Hence they received him with applause fully equal to that which they bestowed upon Mr. Stetson, and after him came many others of more or less prominence, each recognised instantly by everybody, and each receiving his share of applause, graded in exact proportion to his merits.

It was all like a big family gathering. This is a peculiar State, not much affected by immigration, and having certain idiosyncrasies of character which differentiate it from the rest of the Union, but which bind its people more closely together. It is said that mortal enemies from this State, if they meet in a foreign land, become very much better friends than they can ever be with anybody around them. There was a great hum of talk, and the brightly coloured fans of the ladies were fluttering, but this hum was soon lost in the strains of popular music as the band in an upper box began to play.

The band swung into “Dixie,” and a tremendous shout of applause was raised. “Dixie” being finished, it passed on to “Yankee Doodle,” and again a shout of applause went up, though not so loud as before. It was all in perfect good humour, and the old Confederates, and the old Federals sitting in the audience, often brother delegates, knee to knee, began to exchange for the fifteen hundredth time reminiscences of Antietam and the Wilderness. The two old ex-governors, the Federal and the Confederate, sitting side by side in a box were seen to shake hands vigorously in the enthusiasm of the moment, and then the roof lifted itself up at least an inch with the impact of the applause.

As Guthrie glanced over the audience, he caught the eye of Jimmy Warfield, who was chairman of the delegation from the sixth ward, who also was most zealous in the attempt to shelve Warner, believing it absolutely necessary, both in the interests of the party and of morality. He gave back a cheerful smile to Guthrie’s look, but beyond him were the eleventh and twelfth wards, a solid mass of frowning delegates, bent on rule or ruin—that is, either to nominate Warner or to bolt the convention. Now, there was a distinct and manifest feeling of hostility on the part of the rest of the convention toward the eleventh and twelfth wards. The delegates who were compelled to sit nearest the space reserved for them, drew their chairs as far away as possible, and ostentatiously turned their backs. Mr. Pursley moved from seat to seat, helping his friends and fellow-rebels.

The sound of angry words arose; the buzz of feminine talk suddenly ceased, and many fans fluttered apprehensively. It was apparent that the convention should be called to order at once, and Grayson, the district committeeman, promptly did so. Then in accordance with the universal custom, prayer was offered. It was the Bishop who prayed. Having come up from the capital on a visit, he had been asked to serve, a request with which he promptly complied. Never had Guthrie seen him looking nobler, with his fine head of white hair and lofty features. He prayed for the blessing of God upon the nation, upon the president, and upon all those assembled in the hall. When the prayer was over he quietly took a half-hidden seat at the rear of the stage.

Then Grayson quickly gave way to the temporary chairman, a non-committal and negative man named Andrews, who could be depended upon to pass a short and harmless life in the chair, yielding in his turn to the permanent chairman. There was no fight over the rules, nor was there a single contested seat among the delegates, everything being in clean-cut condition for the convention to proceed at once to its business, but while the committees were being selected the great political guns fired a few shots, much as the thirteen-inch cannon on a battleship are discharged for entertainment and instruction before the real test of the smaller calibre rapid-fire arms is made.

The first call from the crowd was for Mr. Stetson, who was always doubly welcome, as he rarely meddled in local politics, and, therefore, trod on no toes. After him came the two ex-governors, and the speaker of the National House.

Guthrie left the table after the second speech, and went to the room where the leaders were in conference, securing admittance on account of his well-known grave and high character, his deep and unselfish interest in politics, and the semi-official position that he had achieved. It was a bleak apartment, used ordinarily as a dressing-room by actors or singers who appeared at Music Hall, but now it contained the elements of civil war.

All the leaders were in the room, and so were the representatives of Headly and Graves, each with a name ready to be proposed for the permanent chairmanship. But the centre of interest was a little red-faced angry Irishman, O’Hara, the leader of the Warner forces. He was with his back to the wall both literally and metaphorically, his doubled-up fists thrust into the pockets of his short sack coat, a shiny silk hat tipped back on his head—all the others were hatless.

“But what we want to know, Mr. O’Hara, is this,” said Mr. Stetson, in a smooth, polite tone; “what does your principal, Mr. Warner, intend to do? Here are the representatives of Mr. Headly and Mr. Graves speaking for their principals, and willing to abide by the decision of the convention, whatever it may be. Will you not do the same?”

But O’Hara fiercely denounced what he called a lack of fair play, refused to agree to anything, and was strongly supported by Mr. Pursley, who adopted a smoother manner. That ended the conference and the attempt at peace.

O’Hara resumed his seat among the twelfth ward delegates, a motion to adjourn until two o’clock was made, seconded and carried without opposition, and the convention adjourned, the spectators going out amid a great murmur of talk, the rustle of summer dresses, and the fluttering of fans.

It would be two hours now until the convention met again, but much might be done in two hours, and everybody intended that much should be done.

The first step of the leaders was to suggest Mr. Stetson for permanent chairman. He was an editor, not directly a politician, and not even the Warnerites would dare to accuse him, the idol of the State, of unfairness in his rulings. This is a State which loves its great men, and it would brook no such insult to Mr. Stetson. There were limits which O’Hara himself would not dare to pass. The case was put at once before Mr. Stetson, and reluctantly he accepted.

Music Hall was filled long before two o’clock when the convention was to meet again. The women and the girls came as in the morning in their pretty summer dresses, only they were yet more numerous now, and the audience as seen by those on the stage reminded them, with increasing vividness, of a great rose garden of colour. They even overflowed the space, railed off for the delegates who with true gallantry crowded themselves together to make room, because conventions in this State being always social and spectacular, as well as political, the rights of spectators are thoroughly recognised.

The crowds in the aisles, too, were so dense that Guthrie and the other members of the press had great difficulty in making their way to the stage. Again the big building resounded with the hum of many voices and the flutter of a forest of painted fans. All the windows were thrown open to admit the fresh air.

The temporary chairman called the convention to order and announced that nominations for permanent chairman would now be made. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Jimmy Warfield sprang to his feet and presented the name of Mr. Stetson.

The nomination came as a surprise to all except the leaders, and was much the more effective on that account. The roar of applause from both delegates and audience was so spontaneous, so swelling that nothing could withstand it. Guthrie glanced down toward the camp of the insurgents, the delegates from the eleventh and twelfth wards, and he saw the faces of Warner, O’Hara, and those nearest them fall. They were, in fact, taken unawares and swept off their feet. Some one jumped up and made a motion that Mr. Stetson be nominated by acclamation. The motion was seconded, and then it was carried at once, amid thunderous applause, although there was a sullen silence on the part of the rebellious gentlemen representing the eleventh and twelfth wards.

Mr. Stetson was escorted to the chair, and made a short speech, according to custom.

Then, the people bent forward in their seats. The combat was about to begin, and they were in it, heart and soul.

The chairman, the man who was now to rule the battle, settled himself fairly in his seat, his square shoulders and massive chest rising up like a stone tower. With a slight motion of his left hand, he threw back the thick gray hair from his brow, and then swept the convention with one keen, comprehensive glance.

Up sprang Timothy O’Hara, delegate from the twelfth ward, standing amid the faithful crowd of his henchmen, and nominated with orotund speech the Honourable Henry Clay Warner, the friend and champion of the people.

The delegates from the eleventh and twelfth wards moved by a common impulse sprang to their feet, and uttering tremendous shouts waved their hats and stamped the floor. “Warner! Warner!” they cried. The rest of the convention was cold and silent.

Then the names of Headly and Graves in turn were put before the convention by their lieutenants in speeches in which their merits and their necessity to the State were proclaimed.

The last nomination was finished, the last sound of applause died, and the forces now stood upon the battlefield, horse, foot, and guns, each in its proper place ready for action.

A throb ran through the convention, delegates and spectators alike. A great murmur arose as people began to whisper to each other. Down in the two rebellious wards the delegates looked anxious, and O’Hara closely scanned the convention.

Right here was a critical moment. The convention could now proceed by either of two methods: it could adopt a resolution to drop the weakest candidate after the third ballot, and continue to a choice, or continue as they stood to a choice. The first was sure to cause the bolt of the Warnerites, as he was obviously the weakest of the three, and there were votes enough at any time to adopt the resolution.

The temptation among the younger men to offer the resolution, and “put Warner out of business,” as they termed it, was strong, but the hands of the cool and wary leaders held the bridle, and they pulled back on the bit. They did not wish merely to win here—that in itself would be a bootless triumph—but to win at the November election, unscarred, and with no feud behind them. What they wanted now, as ever, was time, time, time, in which something might happen.

The resolution was not offered. O’Hara saw nobody rise to his feet with a threat in his eye. He, too, did not want the resolution. Neither he nor Warner wished a bolt; that they would take as a last resort, hoping in preference to wear the convention out, and by sheer obstinacy and perversity force the nomination of Warner in the end, thus saving to themselves the colour of regularity.

This anxious pause—anxious for both sides—was over, and the chairman ordered the first ballot. The vote was cast by wards twelve in all but the number of votes allowed to each ward was proportioned to its population, the eleventh and twelfth having the most.

The total number of votes in the convention was 332.

The vote of each ward was cast by its chairman of delegates, and the clerk in a mechanical voice announced the result:

To be nominated, a candidate must receive a majority of all the votes cast, nobody had received such a majority, and, therefore, nobody was nominated.

A second ballot was taken, and a third, and a fourth, always with the same result. So fixed and immutable was the vote that not a single figure was changed.

The convention was in a dead-lock.

The afternoon waned, none of the audience left, everybody hoping that something would happen, and the monotony, too, being relieved now and then by passages at arms between the delegates on whose temper the fight was beginning to wear.

The day was near its end. Guthrie glancing through a rear window of the hall saw again the wide yellow river, and the hills beyond, their green, now shaded into purple and gold, and rose by the sunset shadows. Then he looked back once more at the battlefield before him, and wondered how it would end.

The sixth ballot was just finished, and the clerk in that cold mechanical voice like a sound coming from a phonograph, announced the same result.

Then Jimmy Warfield made a motion to adjourn until the next morning, the motion was seconded, and, the recalcitrants raising no objection, it was carried unanimously.

The convention broke up for the day, and the people passed slowly out of the hall, talking over what had happened.

The sun set on the first day’s fighting and it was a drawn battle, but a second day was soon to come, and the night between would be filled with such work as the Old Fourth had never seen before. Pale and determined the leaders slipped quietly from the hall.

That was a memorable night in the Old Fourth, and the people felt alike the danger and the honour. They were not out of the hall before the telegraph wires were sending the news all over the United States. This was a pivotal district; always so reliable, it had suddenly become doubtful, and every newspaper in the Union had said so. Hence all eyes were turned that way.

Guthrie left the convention hall with Clarice, and together they walked down the street. The sun had gone behind the hills and the cool of the evening had come. She had thrown a light shawl over her shoulders, but otherwise she was all in white, and to Guthrie she seemed the most beautiful of all the women who had been in the hall.

He knew himself as he was. He loved her. The Count was gone, out of the way, and he was sure that she did not hate him. Then why not speak? But Guthrie thought again of the difference in their material fortunes. She was a great heiress, and he, however much people liked him, and however well he stood in his own profession, could not look forward to any great pecuniary success. He might get the Washington bureau of the Times, but even then he would be in no position to ask her to marry him. She might refuse him, she probably would, but he had no right to put her to the proof.

His usually sanguine and optimistic temperament was afflicted with a few moments of painful melancholy, but then he resolutely cast it aside, and would not let her see.

The summer night came down swiftly over the city, but the electric lights twinkled through the dusk, and threw a silver shadow across the sidewalks. The streets were full of people, and many bowed to Guthrie and Clarice, as they walked on together.

They walked among friends, and now and then some one asked Guthrie what he thought the result of the fight in the Old Fourth would be, but he always shook his head and maintained his ignorance; he would state his hopes, but he preferred not to predict.

Guthrie had no notion of quitting the field of battle until the next day—he was too good a soldier for that, knowing how important the night would be. But again, like the good soldier, he would eat and refresh himself before the contest, and, leaving Clarice at her father’s door, he hurried home for that purpose.

He had scarcely finished a hasty dinner before a message came, and he hurried away ready to do his part in the strenuous conflict.

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