The band outside was quiet now. A human voice was
bellowing. It was Arba Spinney's voice--a voice without words.
Wasgatt, short, stout, habitually pop-eyed and nervous, clutched his
papers in one hand and held his eyeglasses at arm's-length in the
other.
The others were in their chairs now, ranged about the sides of the room.
The General, alone, was standing near the table. Wasgatt turned to him
after a rapid scrutiny of the make-up of the party.
"I'd like to have the resolutions read," remarked the General, quietly.
"Go ahead, Wasgatt," commanded Presson; and the committeeman advanced to
the table under the chandelier and began to read.
The preamble was after the usual stereotyped form; the first sections
endorsed the cardinal principles of the party, and Mr. Wasgatt, getting
into the spirit of the thing, began to deliver the rounded periods
sonorously. General Waymouth leaned slightly over the table, propping
himself on the knuckles of his one hand. The light flowed down upon his
silvery hair, his features were set in the intentness of listening.
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