It had been rumored that Courtney of the New York Beacon had come to Washington with blood in his eyes.  But there he sat, silent and unmoved, his swarthy, eagle-like face, with its frame of iron-grey hair as unchanging as if he had never had a passionate thought.

“I don’t like Jim Courtney’s silence,” whispered Stowell to a colleague.  “There’s never so much devil in him as when he keeps still.  You look out for him when he does open up.”

But all the details of the convention do not belong to this narrative.  It is hardly relevant, even, to tell how Stowell’s prediction came true, and at the second day’s meeting Courtney’s calm gave way, and he delivered one of the bitterest speeches of his life.  It was in the morning, and he was down for a set speech on “The Negro in the Higher Walks of Life.”  He started calmly, but as he progressed, the memory of all the wrongs, personal and racial that he had suffered; the knowledge of the disabilities that he and his brethren had to suffer, and the vision of toil unrequited, love rejected, and loyalty ignored, swept him off his feet.  He forgot his subject, forgot everything but that he was a crushed man in a crushed race.

The auditors held their breath, and the reporters wrote much.

Turning to them he said, “And to the press of Washington, to whom I have before paid my respects, let me say that I am not afraid to have them take any word that I may say.  I came here to meet them on their own ground.  I will meet them with pen.  I will meet them with pistol,” and then raising his tall, spare form, he shouted, “Yes, even though there is but one hundred and thirty-five pounds of me, I will meet them with my fists!”

This was all very rash of Courtney.  His paper did not circulate largely, so his real speech, which he printed, was not widely read, while through the columns of the local press, a garbled and distorted version of it went to every corner of the country.  Purposely distorted?  Who shall say?  He had insulted the press; and then Mr. Hamilton was a very wealthy man.

When the time for the consideration of Elkins’ resolution came, Courtney, Jones and Shackelford threw themselves body and soul into the fight with Gray and its author.  There was a formidable array against them.  All the men in office, and all of those who had received even a crumb of promise were for buttering over their wrongs, and making their address to the public a prophecy of better things.

Jones suggested that they send an apology to lynchers for having negroes where they could be lynched.  This called for reproof from the other side, and the discussion grew hot and acrimonious.  Gray again got the floor, and surprised his colleagues by the plainness of his utterances.  Elkins followed him with a biting speech that brought Aldrich to his feet.

Mr. Aldrich had chosen well his time, and had carefully prepared his speech.  He recited all the good things that the administration had done, hoped to do, tried to do, or wanted to do, and showed what a very respectable array it was.  He counseled moderation and conservatism, and his peroration was a flowery panegyric of the “noble man whose hand is on the helm, guiding the grand old ship of state into safe harbor.”