Babbitt was precinct-leader on Floral Heights, but his district was safe and he longed for stouter battling.  His convention paper had given him the beginning of a reputation for oratory, so the Republican-Democratic Central Committee sent him to the Seventh Ward and South Zenith, to address small audiences of workmen and clerks, and wives uneasy with their new votes.  He acquired a fame enduring for weeks.  Now and then a reporter was present at one of his meetings, and the headlines (though they were not very large) indicated that George F. Babbitt had addressed Cheering Throng, and Distinguished Man of Affairs had pointed out the Fallacies of Doane.  Once, in the rotogravure section of the Sunday Advocate-Times, there was a photograph of Babbitt and a dozen other business men, with the caption “Leaders of Zenith Finance and Commerce Who Back Prout.”

He deserved his glory.  He was an excellent campaigner.  He had faith; he was certain that if Lincoln were alive, he would be electioneering for Mr. W. G. Harding—­unless he came to Zenith and electioneered for Lucas Prout.  He did not confuse audiences by silly subtleties; Prout represented honest industry, Seneca Doane represented whining laziness, and you could take your choice.  With his broad shoulders and vigorous voice, he was obviously a Good Fellow; and, rarest of all, he really liked people.  He almost liked common workmen.  He wanted them to be well paid, and able to afford high rents—­though, naturally, they must not interfere with the reasonable profits of stockholders.  Thus nobly endowed, and keyed high by the discovery that he was a natural orator, he was popular with audiences, and he raged through the campaign, renowned not only in the Seventh and Eighth Wards but even in parts of the Sixteenth.

II

Crowded in his car, they came driving up to Turnverein Hall, South Zenith—­Babbitt, his wife, Verona, Ted, and Paul and Zilla Riesling.  The hall was over a delicatessen shop, in a street banging with trolleys and smelling of onions and gasoline and fried fish.  A new appreciation of Babbitt filled all of them, including Babbitt.

“Don’t know how you keep it up, talking to three bunches in one evening.  Wish I had your strength,” said Paul; and Ted exclaimed to Verona, “The old man certainly does know how to kid these roughnecks along!”

Men in black sateen shirts, their faces new-washed but with a hint of grime under their eyes, were loitering on the broad stairs up to the hall.  Babbitt’s party politely edged through them and into the whitewashed room, at the front of which was a dais with a red-plush throne and a pine altar painted watery blue, as used nightly by the Grand Masters and Supreme Potentates of innumerable lodges.  The hall was full.  As Babbitt pushed through the fringe standing at the back, he heard the precious tribute, “That’s him!” The chairman bustled down the center aisle with an impressive, “The speaker?  All ready, sir!  Uh—­let’s see—­what was the name, sir?”