“Look at Peleg,” whispered the widow. “If somebody don’t tie a strap round his chist he’s a-goin’ to bust.”
Peleg’s nomination was duly seconded, not by Michael Moran, for Moran’s residence was elsewhere, but to Moran’s satisfaction. He sat on the aisle, well toward the front, and had been the recipient of much attention. Easily Moran was the dominant figure of the body. Why should he not be, on this his day of victory over his enemies?
Zaanan sat motionless, spoke to no one, paid no attention to what went forward. He was there, that was all. It seemed as if he had come from, habit, not from interest. After the first few moments he was forgotten, unnoticed. Zaanan had been moved on to oblivion.
Bob Allen nominated Zaanan. He made no speech, simply mounted the platform and announced that he placed the name of Zaanan Frame before the caucus as a candidate for the justiceship. It was a form, that was all. Then he stepped down.
“Any secondin’ speech?” asked the chairman—a form, too.
“Calc’late there is,” said a voice at the rear of the hall, and Steve Gilders arose, for once detached from the rifle which had grown to be as much a part of him as his arms.
As Steve walked forward, indeed, as the first of his words fell on the ears of the body, it became silent. Men looked at one another, felt a tenseness in the air, an apprehension. A small boy walked by Steve’s side, his hand in Steve’s.
Together they mounted the platform, stood facing the hall.
“I’m here to second that there nomination,” Steve said, harshly. “Bein’s I haint taught in speech-makin’ I fetched help. But I figger the boy and me’ll be able to make out.”
He got down on one knee so his face was on a level with the child’s.
Every man, every woman, in the house was straining forward. Here was something not to be expected by any; something fraught with meaning. Michael Moran was of those whose eyes were fixed on the two figures. He half arose to his feet, then sank back, face distorted, fists clenched.
“Who was your ma?” Steve asked, in a voice that chilled.
“She did,” said the child, his lips quivering.
The gallery became audible—it gasped once, then was silent again.
“Who is your pa?” Steve went on, inexorably.
Steve arose, lifted the child above his head.