Such are the preparatory comments of the audience.

“Your honor—­”

Corkey has been “pulled” for gambling.  His public addresses heretofore have been made before the police justice.

“Your honor, Mr. Chairman, and Mr. Delegates:—­We’re goin’ to quit you.  We’re goin’ to walk, to sherry, to bolt.  We didn’t have no fair chance to vote our men yesterday.  We carried our wards just as you carried your’n.  We’ve just as good a right to the candidate as you have.  We therefore with-with-with-go out—­and you can bet your sweet life we stay out! and you hear me—­”

“Goon!” “Goon!” “Ki-yi!” “Yip-yip!”

Such are the flattering outbursts.  Why does the orator pause?

His head quakes and vibrates, his face grows black, the mouth opens into a parallelogram, the sharp little tongue plays about the mass of black tobacco.

The convention leaps to its feet.  The Sneeze has come.

“That settles it!” cry the delegates.  “Bounce any man that’ll do such a thing as that!  Fire him out!”

The irresistible movement has reached Corkey’s eyrie.  Four faithful Corkeyites are holding Corkey’s platform.  The assault on these supports, these Atlases, brings the collapse of Corkey.  He goes down fighting, and he fights like a hero.  One of the toughs who saw Corkey put away his revolver at the primary is badly battered before he can retreat.

The melee is a good-sized one.  “It is to be observed,” writes the keen-eyed reporters, “that the consumption of peanuts rises to its maximum during the purgation of a convention.”

The convention is purged.  The fumes of whisky and tobacco increase.  The crash of peanuts ceases.  The committee on credentials reports.  Harmony is to be the watchword.  In this interest it has been agreed to seat four Harpwood delegates and eight Lockwin delegates in each of the contests.

Although the Harpwood delegates howl with indignation, it is only a howl.  None of them go out.  They will all vote.  But their votes will not affect the nomination.  If otherwise, the convention can be again purged and the correct result established.  That would be bloody and difficult.  Wait until it shall be necessary.

“It is one of the workings of the status quo,” writes the reporter of the single-tax weekly, “that friction is everywhere reduced to the minimum of the system.  There is little waste of bloody noses in politics.”

“It is getting past dinner time.  Why not be through with this?  What is the matter?”

These are the questions of the sidewalk inspectors, who perhaps ache to return to their other public duties.

“It is Corkey’s fault—­Corkey’s fault!  But here’s the platform, now!”

“We point with the finger of scorn—­” reads the clerk in a great voice.

“That’s the stuff!” respond the faithful, shaking hands one with another.