Would that the immortal Cicero ("Now we’re in for it,” breathed Galt) in his deathless orations had been inspired by the illustrious figure of our fellow-countryman.  Gentlemen, in the Honourable Cumberland Crutchfield you behold one whose public service is an inspiration, whose private life is a benediction—­one who has borne without abuse the grand old title of the Caesar of Democracy, and I dare to stand before you and assert that, had Caesar been a Cumberland Crutchfield, there would have been no Brutus.  Gentlemen, I present to you in the Honourable Cumberland Crutchfield the Vested Virgin of Virginia!”

The chairman’s gavel fell with a thud.  In the uproar which ensued hats, fans, sticks filled the air.  The tenth delegation rose to a man and surged forward, but it was howled down.  “Go it, old man!” sang the boxes, where the fringe of feet was wildly swaying, and “He’s all right!” screeched the galleries.  To a man who may be made fun of a Virginia convention can be kind, but in the confusion Gary had sauntered out for a drink.

After his exit the seconding motion flowed on smoothly through several tedious speeches; and when the virtues of Mr. Crutchfield had been sufficiently exploited Major Baylor requested the nomination of Dudley Webb.  He spoke warmly along the old heroic lines.

“The gentleman whom I ask you to nominate as your candidate for governor stands before his people as one of the foremost statesmen of his day.  The father fell while defending Virginia; the son has pledged his splendid ability and his untiring youth to the same service.  From a child he has been trained in the love of country and the principles of Democracy.  In his veins he carries the blood of a race of patriots.  From his mother’s breast he has imbibed the immortal milk of morality.  He has laboured for his people in a single-hearted service that seeketh not its own.  There is no man rich enough to buy the good-will of Dudley Webb; there is none so poor—­”

“That he hasn’t a vote to sell him!” called a voice from the pit.

In an instant a chorus of yells rang out from stage to gallery.  The man who spoke was knocked down by a Webb partisan, and assailant and assailed were hustled from the house.

When the uproar was subdued, the thin voice of Mr. Slate sounded from the platform.

“What he doesn’t sell he buys,” he cried in his nervous, penetrant tones.  “Twelve years ago he was accused of lobbying with full hands in the legislature.  He was the lobbyist of the P.H. & C. railroad.  The charge was passed over, not disproved.  What do you say to this, Major?”

In the effort to restore order the chairman grew purple, but the major turned squarely upon his questioner.

“I say nothing, sir.  It is unnecessary to assert that a gentleman is not a criminal at large.”

A burst of applause broke out.

“I repeat the charge,” screamed Slate.

“It is false!” retorted the major.