"There's Fog-horn Spinney holding forth," Thornton informed Harlan,
ironically. "Come along. We mustn't slight any of the candidates."
They made way for him. Men grinned up into his face as he passed. They
scented possible entertainment when the big boss met the demagogue. Many
of the men wore badges--long strips of ribbon with this legend printed
thereon, running lengthwise of the ribbon:
HONEST ARBA
Candidate Spinney had a thick packet of ribbons in one of his
gesticulating hands. He was flushed, vociferous, and somewhat insolent.
Like Everett, he was not analyzing the acclamation that greeted
everything he said; applause had made him drunk. But under the hilarity
of his listeners there was considerable enthusiasm for the man himself.
The Duke perceived it, for he realized what times had come upon the
State. Spinney's bombast expressed the protest that was abroad.
Rebellion, thirsty, does not seek the cold spring of Reason. It fuddles
itself with hot speech, it riots--it dares not pause to ponder.
"The men that are running this State to-day are running it for
themselves," he declaimed, as Thornton and his grandson came into the
front rank of his listeners.
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