roar and drowned them.  The chairman hammered monotonously for order; Mr. Daniel Harwood might have been seen to thrust his memorandum into his trousers pocket; he bent forward in his seat with his eye upon the chairman.  The Honorable Isaac Pettit had been for a moment nonplussed; he was unacquainted with the gentleman from Pulaski, nor had he known that an effort was to be made to commit the convention to Thatcher’s candidacy; still the tone of the resolution was friendly.  Thatcher, rising to his feet, was noisily cheered; his face was red and his manner betokened anger; but after glancing helplessly over the hall he sank into his seat.  The chairman thumped with his gavel; it seemed for a moment that he had lost control of the convention; and now the Honorable Isaac Pettit was observed demanding to be heard.  The chairman lifted his hand and the noise died away.  It lay in his power to ignore the resolution wholly or to rule it out of order; the chairman was apparently in no haste to do anything.

“Good old Uncle Ike,” howled some one encouragingly, and there was laughter and applause.  With superb dignity Mr. Pettit appealed for silence with gestures that expressed self-depreciation, humility, and latent power in one who would, in due course, explain everything.  A group of delegates in the rear began chanting stridently, “Order!  Order!” and it was flung back antiphonally from a dozen other delegations.

Mr. Harwood became active and climbed upon his chair.  Gentlemen in every part of the hall seemed at once anxious to speak, but the chairman was apparently oblivious of all but the delegate from Marion.  The delegate from Marion, like the mysterious person from Pulaski, was a stranger to state conventions.  The ladies were at once interested in the young gentleman with the red carnation in his buttonhole—­a trim young fellow, in a blue serge suit, with a blue four-in-hand knotted under a white winged collar.  As he waited with his eye on the chairman he put his hand to his head and smoothed his hair.

“Is Daniel going to speak?” asked Mrs. Owen.  “He ought to have asked me if he’s going to back Edward Thatcher for Senator.”

“I always think his cowlick’s so funny.  He’s certainly the cool one,” said Marian.

“I don’t know what they’re talking about a Senator for,” said Mrs. Bassett.  “It’s very unusual.  If I’d known they were going to talk about that I shouldn’t have come.  There’s sure to be a row.”

The chairman seemed anxious that the delegate from Marion should be honored with the same close attention that had been secured for the stranger from Pulaski.

“I hope he’ll wait till they all sit down,” said Sylvia; “I want to hear him speak.”

“You’ll hear him, all right,” said Marian.  “You know at Yale they called him ‘Foghorn’ Harwood, and they put him in front to lead the cheering at all the big games.”