There was a big crowd in the courthouse, and the convention went off like a well-oiled machine. They nominated sheriff and probate judge and then the chairman asked:
I had my throat all cleared and stood up with: “Mr. Chairman,”—but no one paid much attention to me. The chairman turned to the platform and said:
“I recognize Judge Spaulding,” and there was the big, fat boss on his feet.
“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “today our glorious country lives or dies! The grand old Republican party is on trial. Every patriot is needed in this great crisis. Ho! Israel, every man to his tent! I therefore take great pleasure in nominating that splendid farmer, that incomparable patriot, that popular citizen, Henry Wilkins of Adams township. I ask you in the name of our glorious citizenship to put him through with bells on!”
I stood there all through the speech too dazed to sit, until John Crandall pulled me down. Then I realized that for once a bluff had worked. And after the convention I met Jake Spaulding in front of the courthouse. “Young feller,” he said, “if you decide to settle down in this county, let me know. I’ll have a little job for you.”
We all rode home in the candidate’s wagon. Sarah was waiting for us at the gate.
“Nominated by acclamation,” said Henry. “John and the young feller here did it. They made Jake Spaulding come up!”
If some actress could put into a single word the scorn and surprise which Sarah packed into her husband’s name her fortune would be made. And John and I stood there like a couple of truant schoolboys waiting for the verdict.
“That’s what I said. John was fine. Only for him I’d have been defeated.” And Henry drove on.
“Now you two lazy Republicans, get out and milk those cows.”
We went, but when we got back the kitchen stove was roaring, and Sarah was just taking out a pan of biscuits. There were ham and eggs on the stove.
“Now you sit right down and eat. If I’ve got to be sister to a county clerk I want to know all about it. Now, John, you tell me just how it happened.”
Ah, but those were the happy days of politics. Do you wonder that we old-timers consider the present campaign about like dishwater—in more ways than one?
End of Project Gutenberg's Hope Farm Notes, by Herbert Winslow Collingwood