Part 10

“He’s been that way ever since he read, suddenly, that Blaine was dead,” she said, lowering her voice to keep it safe from his failing ears; “he had a kind of a stroke, and ever since he ‘s had the notion that Blaine was alive and was going to be nominated, and his heart was set on going here. Mother was afraid; but when--when he cried to go, I could not help taking him--I did n’t know but maybe it might help him; he was such a smart man and such a good man; and he has had trouble about mortgaging the farm; and he worked so hard to get the money back, so mother would feel right. All through the hot weather he worked, and I guess that’s how it happened. You don’t think it’s hurt him? The doctor said he might go. He told T----, a gentleman friend of mine who asked him.”

“Oh, dear, no,” said I; “it has been good for him.”

I asked for her address, which fortunately was near, and I offered her the cab that was waiting for me. I had some ado to persuade her to accept it; but when I pointed to her grandfather’s pale face she did accept it, thanking me in a simple but touching way, and, of course, begging me to visit her at Izard, Ohio.

All this while we had been sedulously fanning the old man, who would occasionally open his eyes for a second, but gave no other sign of returning consciousness.

The young Reed man came back with the water. He was bathing the old man’s forehead in a very skilful and careful way, using my handkerchief, when an uproar of cheering shook the very floor under us and the rafters overhead.

“Who is it?” the old man inquired, feebly.

“Foraker! Foraker!” bellowed the crowd.

“He’s nominated him!” muttered the old man; but this time he did not attempt to rise. With a smile of great content he leaned against his granddaughter’s strong young frame and listened, while the cheers swelled into a deafening din, an immeasurable tumult of sound, out of which a few strong voices shaped the chorus of the Battle Cry of Freedom, to be caught up by fifteen thousand throats and pealed through the walls far down the city streets to the vast crowd without.

The young Reed “boomer,” carried away by the moment, flung his free hand above his head and yelled defiantly: “Three cheers for the man from Maine!” Instantly he caught at his wits, his color turned, and he lifted an abashed face to the young girl.

“But, really, you know, that ain’t giving nothing away,” he apologized, plucking up heart. “May I do it again?”

The old partisan’s eye lighted. “Now they’re shouting! That’s like old times! Yes, do it again, boy! Blaine! Blaine! James G. Blaine!”

He let us lead him to the carriage, the rapturous smile still on his lips. The “rooter” and I wormed our way through the crowd back to the seats which the kind Canton man had kept for us.

We were quite like old acquaintances now; and he turned to me at once, “Was there ever a politician or a statesman, since Henry Clay, loved so well as James G. Blaine?”