“Don’t you think that because papa isn’t here he won’t be heard from; I think I know papa better than that.  He didn’t think this convention would amount to enough for him to trouble with it.  I told Aunt Sally not to talk much before mother about papa and politics; you will notice that Aunt Sally turned the subject several times this morning.  That lawsuit Mr. Thatcher brought against papa and Aunt Sally made her pretty hot, but papa will fix that up all right.  Papa always fixes up everything,” she concluded admiringly.

It was in Sylvia’s mind that she was witnessing a scene of the national drama and that these men beneath her in the noisy hall were engaged upon matters more or less remotely related to the business of self-government.  She had derived at college a fair idea of the questions of the day, but the parliamentary mechanism and the thunder of the captains and the shouting gave to politics a new, concrete expression.  These delegates, drawn from all occupations and conditions of life, were citizens of a republic, endeavoring to put into tangible form their ideas and preferences; and similar assemblies had, she knew, for years been meeting in every American commonwealth, enacting just such scenes as those that were passing under her eyes.  Her gravity amused Mrs. Owen.

“Don’t you worry, Sylvia; they are all kind to their families and most of ’em earn an honest living.  I’ve attended lots of conventions of all parties and they’re all about alike:  there are more standing collars in a Republican convention and more whiskers when the Prohibitionists get together, but they’re all mostly corn-fed and human.  A few fellows with brains in their heads run all the rest.”

“Look, Marian, Mr. Harwood seems to be getting ready to do something,” said Sylvia.  “I wonder what that paper is he has in his hand.  He’s been holding it all morning.”

Harwood sat immediately under them.  Several times men had passed notes to him, whereupon he had risen and searched out the writer to give his answer with a nod or shake of the head.  When Thatcher appeared, Dan had waited for the hubbub to subside and then he left his seat to shake hands with Bassett’s quondam ally.  He held meanwhile a bit of notepaper the size of his hand, and scrutinized it carefully from time to time.  It contained the precise programme of the convention as arranged by Bassett.  Morton Bassett was on a train bound for the pastoral shades of Waupegan a hundred miles away, but the permanent chairman had in his vest pocket a copy of Bassett’s scheme of exercises; even Thatcher’s rapturous greeting had been ordered by Bassett.  There had already been one slight slip; the eagerness of the delegates to proceed to the selection of the state ticket had sent matters forward for a moment beyond the chairman’s control.  A delegate with a weak voice had gained recognition for the laudable purpose of suggesting a limitation upon nominating speeches; the permanent chairman had mistaken him for another gentleman for whom he was prepared, and he hastened to correct his blunder.  He seized the gavel and began pounding vigorously and the man with the weak voice never again caught his eye.