“What’s the matter with the bellwether?” said Lane sententiously.

“That’s just exactly what is the matter.  Their bellwether is an old deacon named Isham Swift, and you couldn’t turn him with a forty-horsepower crank.”

“There’s nothing like trying.”

“There are many things very similar to failing, but none so bad.”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

“Well, all right; but whom will you send?  We can’t waste a good man.”

“I’ll go myself.”

“What, you?”

“Yes, I.”

“Why, you’d be the laughing-stock of the State.”

“All right; put me down for that office if I never reach the gubernatorial chair.”

“Say, Lane, what was the name of that Spanish fellow who went out to fight windmills, and all that sort of thing?”

“Never mind, Widner; you may be a good political hustler, but you’re dead bad on your classics,” said Lane laughingly.

So they put him down for a speech in Little Africa, because he himself desired it.

Widner had not lied to him about Deacon Swift, as he found when he tried to get the old man to preside at the meeting.  The Deacon refused with indignation at the very idea.  But others were more acquiescent, and Mount Moriah church was hired at a rental that made the Rev. Ebenezer Clay and all his Trustees rub their hands with glee and think well of the candidate.  Also they looked at their shiny coats and thought of new suits.

There was much indignation expressed that Mount Moriah should have lent herself to such a cause, and there were murmurs even among the congregation where the Rev. Ebenezer Clay was usually an unquestioned autocrat.  But, because Eve was the mother of all of us and the thing was so new, there was a great crowd on the night of the meeting.  The Rev. Ebenezer Clay presided.  Lane had said, “If I can’t get the bellwether to jump the way I want, I’ll transfer the bell.”  This he had tried to do.  The effort was very like him.

The Rev. Mr. Clay, looking down into more frowning faces than he cared to see, spoke more boldly than he felt.  He told his people that though they had their own opinions and ideas, it was well to hear both sides.  He said, “The brothah,” meaning the candidate, “had a few thoughts to pussent,” and he hoped they’d listen to him quietly.  Then he added subtly:  “Of co’se Brothah Lane knows we colo’ed folks ‘re goin’ to think our own way, anyhow.”

The people laughed and applauded, and Lane went to his work.  They were quiet and attentive.  Every now and then some old brother grunted and shook his head.  But in the main they merely listened.

Lane was pleasing, plausible and convincing, and the brass band which he had brought with him was especially effective.  The audience left the church shaking their heads with a different meaning, and all the way home there were remarks such as, “He sholy tol’ de truth,” “Dat man was right,” “They ain’t no way to ’ny a word he said.”