Clouds
of cigar smoke over all--voices blended into one continual diapason;
medley, and miasma of close human contact.
After supper, in the crowded hotel dining-room, Harlan Thornton
accompanied his grandfather through the press of jostling men.
The night before a State Convention was a new experience for him. He
walked behind the Duke, who made his slow, urbane way here and there,
drawling good-humored replies to salutations. He had quip ready for
jest, handclasp for his intimates, tactful word for the newer men who
were dragged forward to meet him. Even the Governor of the State, a
ponderous dignitary with a banner of beard, did not receive so hearty a
welcome, for the Governor was accorded only the perfunctory adulation
given to one whose reign was passing.
"Governors come and Governors go, Thornton, but you've got where you're
an institution!" cried one admirer. "I'll be sorry to miss you out of
the legislature this winter."
"But here's another Thornton--and you can see that he won't rattle
'round in the seat," returned the Duke, his arm affectionately about his
grandson's shoulders.
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