Everett and Spinney were in
their suites, extending hospitality with questionable cigars and
ice-water.
Delegates were flocking up from the hotel bar in squads. They were
meeting other delegates, forming new combinations which offered fresh
opportunities for "setting 'em up," and after paying their respects were
hustling back downstairs again to interview the gentlemen in white
jackets.
Out from open transoms over the doors of sleeping-rooms floated cigar
smoke and voices. There were boys running with ice-water and glasses to
the noisiest rooms. From some of these rooms the familiar bacchanalian
songs were resounding even at that early hour of the evening. The chorus
of "We're here because we're here" mingled with the words of that
reminiscent old carol, "When we fit with Gineral Grant, by gosh."
The Duke, towering, abstracted, swaying along ponderously, close to the
wall of the corridor, eyes on the head of the stairway, was as
indifferent to the uproar as he was to those who passed.
A man who was somewhat flushed and a bit uncertain in his gait came out
of the State Committee headquarters.
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