VII
It was the last meeting. The delegations were presenting
the claims of their several cities to the next year's convention.
Orators were announcing that "Galop de Vache, the Capital
City, the site of Kremer College and of the Upholtz Knitting
Works, is the recognized center of culture and high-class
enterprise;'' and that "Hamburg, the Big Little City with the
Logical Location, where every man is open-handed and every
woman a heaven-born hostess, throws wide to you her hospitable
gates.''
In the midst of these more diffident invitations, the golden
doors of the ballroom opened with a blatting of trumpets, and
a circus parade rolled in. It was composed of the Zenith
brokers, dressed as cowpunchers, bareback riders, Japanese
jugglers. At the head was big Warren Whitby, in the bearskin
and gold-and-crimson coat of a drum-major. Behind
him, as a clown, beating a bass drum, extraordinarily happy
and noisy, was Babbitt.
Warren Whitby leaped on the platform, made merry play
with his baton, and observed, "Boyses and girlses, the time
has came to get down to cases. A dyed-in-the-wool Zenithite
sure loves his neighbors, but we've made up our minds to grab
this convention off our neighbor burgs like we've grabbed the
condensed-milk business and the paper-box business and—''
J. Harry Barmhill, the convention chairman, hinted, "We're
grateful to you, Mr. Uh, but you must give the other boys a
chance to hand in their bids now.''
A fog-horn voice blared, "In Eureka we'll promise free
motor rides through the prettiest country—''
Running down the aisle, clapping his hands, a lean bald
young man cried, "I'm from Sparta! Our Chamber of Commerce
has wired me they've set aside eight thousand dollars,
in real money, for the entertainment of the convention!''
A clerical-looking man rose to clamor, "Money talks! Move
we accept the bid from Sparta!''
It was accepted.
