All this time I was watching the face of Bryan. I have never seen a more interesting play of expression on the stage than the exhibition which he unconsciously gave. Here was the rising of a new political star, which he well knew meant the setting of his own. His face expressed in turn surprise, alarm, hesitation, doubt, gloom, despair. When Wilson took his seat amidst tremendous applause Bryan’s face was that of a man who had met his Waterloo. He rose like one who was dazed, and made a speech of abdication. He said that the time had come when a new man should be nominated, a man who was free from the asperities of the past, and that he was willing to march in the ranks of the party, and work with the rest of us to help on this victory, which he saw assured. He then started to sit down, but everyone applauded so vigorously, shouting “Go on! Go on!” that he became confused. For once, his political sagacity forsook him: he did not realize that he should stop. He regained his feet, and made a sad anti-climax by telling the diners stories of his observations in the Philippines and elsewhere. The evening was a Wilson triumph. The effect upon Wilson’s fortune was instantaneous. The next morning our little headquarters was the Mecca of the politicians. Congressmen and Senators and members of the National Committee streamed to our rooms at the Willard. Some came to pledge us their support of Wilson; others to take the measure of his managers. Of the latter class, Senator Stone of Missouri was the most interesting. We saw then how he had earned his title, “Gum Shoe Bill.” He dropped in, so he said, for just a minute’s conversation, as Mrs. Stone was waiting for him in the lobby, where he had promised to rejoin her in a few minutes. He stayed for more than half an hour. He spent that time telling us a very humorous story, which would be worth retelling on its merits if it were printable. It dealt with several whimsical characters in a little town in the Ozarks, and he told it with all the rich embroidery of characterization and dialogue with which the best Southern story tellers elaborate their narratives. It was really a little masterpiece of the raconteur’s art, but it had no pertinence to our serious business. I soon became aware, however, that Stone himself had a serious purpose. All the while he was spinning his story out, to make it longer, his eyes were stealing from one face to another of his auditors, shrewdly appraising their reactions, studying each of them to learn what he could of their characters and foibles. When he finally drew the story to its close, sprung the “nub,” and got a round of laughter, he left, as I felt sure at the moment, with a pretty definite estimate of each of us in his head.