Men in black sateen shirts, their faces new-washed but with a hint of grime under their eyes, were loitering on the broad stairs up to the hall. Babbitt’s party politely edged through them and into the whitewashed room, at the front of which was a dais with a red-plush throne and a pine altar painted watery blue, as used nightly by the Grand Masters and Supreme Potentates of innumerable lodges. The hall was full. As Babbitt pushed through the fringe standing at the back, he heard the precious tribute, “That’s him!” The chairman bustled down the center aisle with an impressive, “The speaker? All ready, sir! Uh—let’s see—what was the name, sir?”
Then Babbitt slid into a sea of eloquence:
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Sixteenth Ward, there is one who cannot be with us here tonight, a man than whom there is no more stalwart Trojan in all the political arena—I refer to our leader, the Honorable Lucas Prout, standard-bearer of the city and county of Zenith. Since he is not here, I trust that you will bear with me if, as a friend and neighbor, as one who is proud to share with you the common blessing of being a resident of the great city of Zenith, I tell you in all candor, honesty, and sincerity how the issues of this critical campaign appear to one plain man of business—to one who, brought up to the blessings of poverty and of manual labor, has, even when Fate condemned him to sit at a desk, yet never forgotten how it feels, by heck, to be up at five-thirty and at the factory with the ole dinner-pail in his hardened mitt when the whistle blew at seven, unless the owner sneaked in ten minutes on us and blew it early! (Laughter.) To come down to the basic and fundamental issues of this campaign, the great error, insincerely promulgated by Seneca Doane—”
There were workmen who jeered—young cynical workmen, for the most part foreigners, Jews, Swedes, Irishmen, Italians—but the older men, the patient, bleached, stooped carpenters and mechanics, cheered him; and when he worked up to his anecdote of Lincoln their eyes were wet.
Modestly, busily, he hurried out of the hall on delicious applause, and sped off to his third audience of the evening. “Ted, you better drive,” he said. “Kind of all in after that spiel. Well, Paul, how’d it go? Did I get ’em?”
“Bully! Corking! You had a lot of pep.”
Mrs. Babbitt worshiped, “Oh, it was fine! So clear and interesting, and such nice ideas. When I hear you orating I realize I don’t appreciate how profoundly you think and what a splendid brain and vocabulary you have. Just—splendid.” But Verona was irritating. “Dad,” she worried, “how do you know that public ownership of utilities and so on and so forth will always be a failure?”
Mrs. Babbitt reproved, “Rone, I should think you could see and realize that when your father’s all worn out with orating, it’s no time to expect him to explain these complicated subjects. I’m sure when he’s rested he’ll be glad to explain it to you. Now let’s all be quiet and give Papa a chance to get ready for his next speech. Just think! Right now they’re gathering in Maccabee Temple, and waiting for us!”
III
Mr. Lucas Prout and Sound Business defeated Mr. Seneca Doane and Class Rule, and Zenith was again saved. Babbitt was offered several minor appointments to distribute among poor relations, but he preferred advance information about the extension of paved highways, and this a grateful administration gave to him. Also, he was one of only nineteen speakers at the dinner with which the Chamber of Commerce celebrated the victory of righteousness.
His reputation for oratory established, at the dinner of the Zenith Real Estate Board he made the Annual Address. The Advocate-Times reported this speech with unusual fullness:
“One of the livest banquets that has recently been pulled off occurred last night in the annual Get-Together Fest of the Zenith Real Estate Board, held in the Venetian Ball Room of the O’Hearn House. Mine host Gil O’Hearn had as usual done himself proud and those assembled feasted on such an assemblage of plates as could be rivaled nowhere west of New York, if there, and washed down the plenteous feed with the cup which inspired but did not inebriate in the shape of cider from the farm of Chandler Mott, president of the board and who acted as witty and efficient chairman.
“As Mr. Mott was suffering from slight infection and sore throat, G. F. Babbitt made the principal talk. Besides outlining the progress of Torrensing real estate titles, Mr. Babbitt spoke in part as follows:
“ ‘In rising to address you, with my impromptu speech carefully tucked into my vest pocket, I am reminded of the story of the two Irishmen, Mike and Pat, who were riding on the Pullman. Both of them, I forgot to say, were sailors in the Navy. It seems Mike had the lower berth and by and by he heard a terrible racket from the upper, and when he yelled up to find out what the trouble was, Pat answered, “Shure an’ bedad an’ how can I ever get a night’s sleep at all, at all? I been trying to get into this darned little hammock ever since eight bells!”
“ ‘Now, gentlemen, standing up here before you, I feel a good deal like Pat, and maybe after I’ve spieled along for a while, I may feel so darn small that I’ll be able to crawl into a Pullman hammock with no trouble at all, at all!
“ ‘Gentlemen, it strikes me that each year at this annual occasion when friend and foe get together and lay down the battle-ax and let the waves of good-fellowship waft them up the flowery slopes of amity, it behooves us, standing together eye to eye and shoulder to shoulder as fellow-citizens
