Here the tin-horns, the cat-calls, the drunken congratulations--the
whole Babel--rises above the charm of oratory. But the people's idol
does not stop. The words roll from his mouth. The form sways, the
finger points.

"He's the boy!" "Notice his giblets!" "He will be President--if his
barrel lasts." Thus the first, second and third saloon-keepers
determine.

There is a revulsion in the crowd. What is the matter at the basement
gate?

It is the cook and the housekeeper in contention.

"I tell ye's I'm goin' to fasten it on the door! Such doings as this I
never heard of. Oh, Davy, my darlint! Oh! Davy, my darlint!"

The crowd is withdrawing to the opposite curb, But the crush is
tremendous. There are ten thousand people in the street. Only those
near by know what is happening.

The cook escapes from the housekeeper. She climbs the steps of the
portico. She flaunts the white crape. "Begone, ye blasphemous
wretches!" she cries.

"What the devil is that?" asks the first citizen.

The cook is fastening the white gauze and the white satin ribbon on the
bell knob.