There was every curl and dress of hair. There was every style of clothing, from jewels and evening dress to the rough, clean Sunday coat of the laborer and the blue mohair of his wife. All expressions played on the upturned faces: inquiry, curiosity, eager anticipation, cynical doubt.
The Honorable Sammy was nervous. He did not go on the platform. He hovered back in the rear of the audience, with a hearty handshake here and a slap on the back there.
“Hello, old man. Well, well, well! And Johnson, as I am alive! My God! but you’re looking fit, my boy, fit. Well, what’s the good word? What do you know? Mother James, as I’m a sinner! Here, Jack! Seat for Mrs. James? Must find one. Why, I’d—” etc., etc.
But Sammy was nervous. He didn’t “like the look of that bird on the platform.” Somehow, he didn’t look the part. Why, my God, with that audience he had the cream and pick of black Chicago and the ears of the world. There was one of the Tribune’s best men, and the Examiner and the News and the Post had reporters. Good Lord, what a scoop, if they could put it over! He had Chicago in the palm of his hand. But “that bird don’t look the part!” and Sammy groaned aloud.
Sara had pushed him into this, She was getting too bossy, too domineering; he’d have to put the reins on her, perhaps get rid of her altogether. Well, not that, of course; she was valuable, but she must stop making him do things against his better judgment. He never had quite cottoned to this jailbird, nohow. Who ever heard of a sane man going to jail to save somebody else? It wasn’t natural. Something must be wrong with him. Look at those eyes.
Where was Sara? Perhaps she could manage to pump some gumption into him, even at the last moment. If this thing failed, if Towns said the wrong thing or didn’t say the right one, he would be knocked into a cocked hat. He had had a hard time bringing the pardon off anyhow. The congressman was skittish; feared the Governor: “Don’t like to touch it, Sam. My advice is to drop it.”
But Sammy, egged on by Sara, had insisted.
“Alright, I’ll try it. But look here, nothing else. If I pull this pardon through, that five thousand dollars I promised for the campaign is off. I can’t milk the railroads for both.”
Sammy had hesitated and consulted Sara.
“Five thousand dollars is five thousand dollars.”
And then he would need the cash this fall. But Sara was adamant.
“Five thousand dollars isn’t a drop compared with this if we put it over.”
And now Sammy groaned again. If he failed—“God damn it to hell!—Where is Sara?”
The exercises had opened. A rousing chorus began that raised the roof and hurled its rhythm against the vibrating audience; an impressive and dignified introduction by the Bishop, and a witty, even if somewhat evasive, speech by the mayor. Sammy began to sweat, and his smile wore off.
The congressman started to introduce the “gentleman whom we all are waiting to hear—the hero, the martyr—Matthew Towns!” There was a shout that rose, gathered, and broke. Then a hush fell over the audience. Matthew seemed to hesitate. He started to rise—stopped, looked helplessly about, and then got slowly to his feet and leaned against the pulpit awkwardly.
“O Lord!” groaned Sammy, “O Lord!”
“I am not a speaker,” said Matthew slowly.
(“It’s the God’s truth,” said Sammy.)
“I have really nothing to say.” (“And you’re sure sayin’ it, bo,” snarled Sammy.) “And if I had I would not know how to.” And then he straightened up and added reflectively, “I am—my speech.” The audience rustled and Sammy was faint.
“I was born in Virginia—” And then swiftly and conversationally there came the story of his boyhood and youth; of his father and mother; of the cabin and the farm. He had not meant to talk of this. The speech which Sara had at his request prepared for him had nothing of this, but he was thinking of his home. Then followed naturally the story of his student days, of his work and struggles, of the medical school, of the prizes, of his dreams. The audience sat in strained and almost deathly silence, craned forward, scarcely breathing, at the twice-told human tale that touched every one of them, that they knew by heart, that they had lived through each in its thousand variations, and which was working unconsciously to the perfect climax.
(“My God”—whispered Sammy—‘ “he’s putting it over—he’s putting it over. He’s a genius or God’s anointed fool!”)
Finally Matthew came to that day of return to his junior medical year. He saw the scene again—he felt the surge of hot anger; his voice, his great, full, beautiful voice, rose as again he threw his certificates into the face of the dean. The house roared and rang with applause—the men shouted, the women cried, and up from the Amen corner rose the roll and cadence of the slave song: “Before I’d be a slave I’d be buried in my grave and go home to my God and be free!”
Sammy leaned against the back wall glowing. It was a diamond stickpin for Sara!
Matthew awoke from the hypnotism of his own words, and the fierce enthusiasm died suddenly away. Yet he was no longer afraid of his audience or wanting words. With unconscious artistry he Jet his climax rest where it was, and he stood a moment with brooding eyes—a lean, handsome, cadaverous figure—and told the rest of his story in even, matter-of-fact tones.
“I ran away from my
