willing to witness or permit the slowing of those freedoms to which this nation has always been committed?'
'No!' Flora shouted, along with everyone else in the hall.
'Neither am I! Neither is the Socialist Party!' Upton Sinclair cried. 'And I also tell you this, my friends: if our free country cannot help the men who are poor, it surely cannot-and should not-save the few who are rich!' Every time Flora thought the next round of applause could be no louder than the last, she found herself mistaken. When silence returned, Sinclair went on, 'Now that we have suffered so much in the struggle against our nation's foes, let us struggle instead against the common enemies of mankind: against oppression, against poverty, and against bloody-handed war itself!'
He went on in that vein for some time. It seemed more an inaugural address than an acceptance speech. No Socialist presidential candidate had ever spoken not only to the Party but also to the country with such easy confidence before. Upton Sinclair sounded as if he took it for granted that he might win. Because he took it for granted (or sounded as if he did), would not the rest of the country do the same?
And then, at last, he said, 'And now, my friends, I have the pleasure and the honor of introducing to you the next vice president of the United States, Congressman Hosea Blackford of the great state of Dakota.'
Blackford got more than polite applause. Flora's contribution was as raucous as she could make it. As the tumult died away, Blackford said, 'I too am of the generation born after the War of Secession, if only just. And I am of the generation that learned of Socialism from its founders: in my case literally, for Abraham Lincoln pointed out to me the need for class justice and economic justice on a train trip through Montana-the Montana Territory, it was then-and Dakota.'
Lincoln's name drew a nervous round of applause, as it always did: half pride in the role he'd played in making the Socialist Party strong, half fear of the contempt that still clung to him because he'd fought-and lost-the War of Secession. Flora hoped that, with victory in the Great War, the country would not dwell on the War of Secession so much as it had in earlier days.
'I stand foursquare behind Mr. Sinclair in his call for freedom and in his call for justice,' Blackford said. 'The Socialist Party, unlike every other party in the USA, is committed to economic freedom and economic justice for every citizen of the United States. Others may speak of a square deal, but how, my friends, how can there be a square deal for the millions of workers who cannot earn enough to buy a square meal?'
That won him solid cheers, in which Flora joined. Possessive pride filled her: that was her man up there, perhaps-no, probably, she thought, defying a generation and a half of Democratic tenure in the White House-the next vice president, as Upton Sinclair had said. Hard on the heels of pride came loneliness. If Blackford was to become the next vice president, he'd be crisscrossing the country between now and November 2. They wouldn't have many chances to see each other till the election.
More solid applause followed Blackford's speech: the sort, Flora thought, a vice-presidential candidate should get. Blackford had spoken ably, but hadn't upstaged Sinclair. 'On to victory!' the chairman shouted, dismissing the delegates and formally bringing the convention to a close.
On the street outside the hall, a sandy-haired fellow in the overalls and cloth cap of a steelworker called Flora's name. 'Yes? What is it?' she asked.
'I wanted to ask how your brother's getting along, ma'am,' the man said. 'I was his sergeant, the day he got hurt. Name's Chester Martin.' He took off the cap and dipped his head.
'Oh!' Flora exclaimed. 'He spoke well of you in his letters, always. You know he lost the leg?'
'I thought he would-I saw the wound,' Martin answered. 'Please say hello for me, next time you see him.'
'I will,' Flora answered. 'He's doing as well as he could hope on the artificial leg. With it and a cane, he gets around fairly well. He's working, back in New York City.'
'That's all good news, or as good as it can be,' Martin said.
'He's a Democrat,' Flora added, as if to say all the news wasn't good.
'I used to be, but I'm a Socialist now,' Martin said. 'It evens out. And I think, with Sinclair running, we may win the election this time, ma'am. I really do.'
'So do I,' Flora whispered-she didn't want to say it too loudly, for fear Something might hear and put a jinx on it. 'So do I.'
Anne Colleton gave her brother an annoyed look. 'I still don't see exactly why you think I ought to meet this person.'
'Because I remember very well the soldier who wrote to me about him,' Tom Colleton replied. 'If Bartlett says something is important, you can take it to the bank.' He looked sheepish. 'These days, as a matter of fact, Bartlett's word is a damn sight better than taking something to the bank.'
'I think you want me to meet this Brearley because you're still trying to get me out of the Freedom Party,' Anne said.
'If the big wheels in the Party aren't just the way you think they are, isn't that something you ought to know?' her brother returned.
If Roger Kimball isn 'tjust the way you think he is, isn 't that a reason to stop your affair with him? That was what Tom meant. Kimball could have been a Baptist preacher, and Tom would have disapproved of the affair. That Kimball was anything but a Baptist preacher made the disapproval stick out all over, like the quills on a porcupine.
Her brother did have a point, though. Anne was not so blindly devoted to either the Freedom Party or to Roger Kimball as to be blind to that. 'He's coming. I can't stop him from coming. I'll hear him out,' she said.
'So glad you're pleased.' Tom grinned impudently. 'Seeing as his train gets into St. Matthews in twenty minutes, I'm going to head over toward the station. Want to come along?'
'No, thank you,' Anne answered. 'This is your soldier and your soldier's pal. If you want to deal with him, go right ahead. You invited him down without bothering to ask me about it, so you can bring him here on your own, too.'
'All right, Sis, I will,' Tom said. 'See you soon-or maybe not quite so soon, depending on how late the train is today.' He grabbed a hat off the rack and went out the door whistling. Anne glared at his back. If he knew she was doing it, he didn't let on.
Anne resolved to be as poor a hostess as rigid notions of Confederate hospitality allowed. But, when her brother returned with the stranger, her resolution faltered. She hadn't expected the fellow to look like such a puppy. Out came a peach pie whose existence she hadn't intended to admit. She put on a fresh pot of coffee. 'Your name is Brearley, isn't that right?' she said, knowing perfectly well it was.
'Yes, ma'am,' he answered. 'Tom Brearley, ex-C.S. Navy. Through most of the war, I was Roger Kimball's executive officer aboard the Bonefishr
'Of course,' Anne said. 'I knew the name sounded familiar.' It hadn't, not really; Kimball had mentioned his exec only a couple of times, and in less than flattering terms. Anne had an excellent memory for names, but Brearley's had slid clean out of her head. He hadn't wanted to give it before coming down, either; only her and Tom's flat refusal to meet with a mystery man had pried it out of him.
Brearley said, 'Up in Richmond, I saw in the papers that you were working for the Freedom Party, and that he is, too.'
Tom Colleton raised an eyebrow. Anne ignored it, saying, 'Yes, that's right. The war's been over for three years now. That's far past time for us to get back on our feet again, but the only people who want this country to do things and not just sit there with its head in the sand are in the Party, seems to me.'
'I don't think that's so, but never mind,' Brearley said. 'I didn't come down here to argue politics with you. Getting somebody to change politics may be easier than getting him to change his church, but it isn't a whole lot easier.'
'Why did you come down here, then?' Anne asked. 'In your last letter, you said you knew something important about Roger Kimball, but you didn't say what. I'm not sure why you thought it would matter to me at all, except that both our names happened to end up in the same newspaper story.'
Kimball hadn't talked much about Brearley to her. How much had Kimball talked about her to Brearley? Men bragged. That was one of their more odious characteristics, as far as she was concerned. She'd thought Kimball relatively immune to the disease. Maybe she'd been wrong.
She couldn't tell, not from reading Brearley's face. He still looked like a puppy. But he didn't sound like a puppy as he answered, 'Because if what he did ever came out, it would embarrass the Freedom Party. For that
