70. CHAPTER LXX.
THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE PEOPLE.
In a few moments they were sauntering along the street.
It was full and murmurous. The lights were bright in the
shop windows, and the scuffling of footsteps, more audible than
during the day, when it is drowned by the roar of carriage-wheels
upon the pavement, had a friendly, social sound.
“Broadway is never so pleasant as in the early evening,”
said Mr. Bennet; “for then the rush of the day is over, and
people move with a leisurely air, as if they were enjoying
themselves. What is that?”
They were going down the street, and saw lights, and heard
music and a crowd approaching. They came nearer; and Mr.
Bennet and his wife turned aside, and stood upon the steps of
a dwelling-house. A band of music came first, playing “Hail
Columbia!” It was surrounded by a swarm of men and boys,
in the street and on the sidewalk, who shouted, and sang, and
ran; and it was followed by a file of gentlemen, marching in
pairs. Several of them carried torches, and occasionally, as
they passed under a house, they all looked up at the windows
and gave three cheers. Sometimes, also, an individual in the
throng shouted something which was received with loud hihi's
and laughter.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“This is a political procession, my dear. Look! they will
not come by us at all; they are turning into Grand Street,
close by. I suppose they are going to call upon some candidate.
I never see any crowd of this kind without thinking
how simple and beautiful our institutions are. Do you ever
think of it, Lucia? What a majestic thing the popular will is!”
“Let's hurry, and we may see something,” said his wife.
The throng had left Broadway, and had stopped in Grand
Street under a balcony in a handsome house. The music had
stopped also, and all faces were turned toward the balcony.
Mr. Bennet and his wife stood at the corner of Broadway.
Suddenly a gentleman took off his hat and waved it violently
in the air, and a superb diamond-ring flashed in the torch-light
as he did so, while he shouted,
“Three cheers for Newt!”
There was a burst of huzzas from the crowd—the drums
rolled—the boys shrieked and snarled in the tone of various
animals—the torches waved—one excited man cried, “One
more!”—there was another stentorian yell, and roll, and wave
—after which the band played a short air. But the windows
did not open.
“Newt! Newt! Newt!” shouted the crowd. The young
gentleman with the diamond-ring disappeared into the house
with several others.
“Why, Slugby, where the devil is he?” said one of them to
another, in a whisper, as they ran up the stairs.
“I'm sure I don't know. Musher promised to have him
ready.”
“And I sent Ele up to get here before we did,” replied his
friend, in the same hurried whisper, his fat nose glistening in
the hall-light.
When they reached Mr. Newt's room they found him lying
upon a sofa, while Musher and the Honorable B. J. Ele were
trying to get him up.
“D—n it! stand up, can't you?” cried Mr. Ele.
“No, I can't,” replied Abel, with a half-humorous maudlin
smile.
At the same moment the impetuous roar of the crowd in the
street stole in through the closed windows.
“Newt! Newt! Newt!”
“What in — shall we do?” gasped Mr. Enos Slugby,
walking rapidly up and down the room.
“Who let him get drunk?” demanded General Belch, angrily.
Nobody answered.
“Newt! Newt! Newt!” surged in from the street.
“Thunder and devils, there's nothing for it but to prop him
up on the balcony!” said General Belch. “Come now, heave
to, every body, and stick him on his pins.”
Abel looked sleepily round, with his eyes half closed and his
under lip hanging.
“'Tain't no use,” said he, thickly; “'tain't no use.”
And he leered and laughed.
The perspiring and indignant politicians grasped him—Slugby
and William Condor under the arms, Belch on one side,
and Ele ready to help any where. They raised their friend to
his feet, while his head rolled slowly round from one side to
the other, with a maudlin grin.
“'Tain't no use,” he said.
Indeed, when they had him fairly on his feet nothing further
seemed to be possible. They were all holding him and
looking very angry, while they heard the loud and imperative—“Newt!
Newt! Newt!” accompanied with unequivocal
signs of impatience in an occasional stone or chip that rattled
against the blinds.
In the midst of it all the form of the drunken man slipped
back upon the sofa, and sitting there leaning on his hands,
which rested on his knees, and with his head heavily hanging
forward, he lifted his forehead, and, seeing the utterly discomfited
group standing perplexed before him, he said, with a foolish
smile,
“Let's all sit down.”
There was a moment of hopeless and helpless inaction.
Then suddenly General Belch laid his hands upon the sofa on
which Abel was lying, and moved it toward the window.
“Now,” cried he to the others, “open the blinds, and we'll
make an end of it.”
Enos Slugby raised the window and obeyed. The crowd
below, seeing the opening blinds and the lights, shouted
lustily.
“Now then,” cried the General, “boost him up a moment
and hold him forward. Heave ho! all together.”
They raised the inert body, and half-lifted, half-slid it forward
upon the narrow balcony.
“Here, Slugby, you prop him behind; and you, Ele and
Condor, one on each side. There! that's it! Now we have
him. I'll speak to the people.”
So saying, the General removed his hat and bowed very low
to the crowd in the street. There was a great shout, “Three
cheers for Newt!” and the three cheers rang loudly out.
“'Tain't Newt,” cried a sharp voice; “it's Belch.”
“Three cheers for Belch!” roared an enthusiastic somebody.
“D— Belch,” cried the sharp voice.
“Hi! hi!” roared the chorus; while the torches waved and
the drums rolled once more.
During all this time General Arcularius Belch had been
bowing profoundly and grimacing in dumb show to the crowd,
pointing at Abel Newt, who stood, ingeniously supported, his
real state greatly concealed by the friendly night.
“Gentlemen!” cried Belch, in a piercing voice.
“H'st! h'st! Down, down! Silence,” in the crowd.
“Gentlemen, I am very sorry to have to inform you that our
distinguished fellow-citizen, Mr. Newt, to compliment whom you
have assembled this evening, is so severely unwell (oh! gum!
from the sharp-voiced skeptic below) that he is entirely unable
to address you. But so profoundly touched is he by your kindness
in coming to compliment him by this call, that he could not
refuse to appear, though but for a moment, to look the thanks
he can not speak. At the earliest possible moment he promises
himself the pleasure of addressing you. Let me, in conclusion,
propose three cheers for our representative in the next
Congress, the Honorable Abel Newt. And now—” he whispered
to his friends as the shouts began, “now lug him in again.”
The crowd cheered, the Honorable Mr. Newt was lugged
in, the windows were closed, and General Belch and his friends
withdrew.
“I tell you what it is,” said he, as they passed up the street
at a convenient distance behind the crowd, “Abel Next is a
man of very great talent, but he must take care. By Jove!
he must. He must understand times and seasons. One thing
can not be too often repeated,” said he, earnestly, “if a man
expects to succeed in political life he must understand when
not to be drunk.”
The merry company laughed, and went home with Mr. William
Condor to crack a bottle of Champagne.
Mr. and Mrs. Bennet had stood at the street corner during
the few minutes occupied by these events. When they heard
the shouts for Newt they had looked inquiringly at each other.
But when the scene was closed, and the cheers for the
Honorable Abel Newt, our representative in Congress, had
died away, they stood for a few moments quite stupefied.
“What does it mean, Gerald?” asked his wife. “Is Abel
Newt in Congress?”
“I didn't know it. I suppose he is only a candidate.”
He moved rapidly away, and his wife, who was not used to
speed in his walking, smiled quietly, and, could he have seen
her eye, a little mischievously. She said presently,
“Yes, our institutions are very simple and beautiful.”
Mr. Bennet said nothing. But she relentlessly continued,
“What a majestic thing the election of Abel Newt by the
popular will will be!”
“My dear,” he answered, “don't laugh until you know that
it is the popular will; and when you do know it, cry.”
They walked on silently for some little distance further, and
then Gerald Bennet turned toward St. John's Square. His
wife asked:
“Where are you going?”
“Can't you guess?”
“Yes; but we have never been there before.”
“Has he ever failed before?”
“No, you dear soul! and I am very glad we are going.”
