The mayor, a little, nervous man with a monstrous mustache and a cast in one eye, opened the meeting with a brief speech, defining the purpose of the evening, and ended by introducing the candidate. Clive came forward. A volley of applause such as he had never before known hailed him. He bowed and bowed again, waiting for it to subside. But it did not. It continued from every quarter of the house. From pleasure Clive felt a growing uneasiness. The majority of the audience seemed to have relapsed into silence, and were staring about them in wonder at the unduly continued ovation. The thumping of feet and canes and the shouts of welcome increased rather than diminished. It settled down into a steady volume of sound, regular and rhythmic, shaking the whole auditorium, losing any hint at spontaneity and degenerating into a deafening, organized babel. The men on the platform glanced at each other in angry bewilderment. For fully ten minutes the tumult endured, rendering intelligible words out of the question. The mayor, as chairman, rapped for silence. But his efforts were vain. The sound was drowned in the vaster, reëchoing volume of rhythmic sound. Clive held up his hand with a gesture of authority. The applause doubled. This was growing absurd. The quiet majority of the audience waxed restive, and half-rose in its seats to locate the disturbance. To end the embarrassing delay Standish began to speak, hoping the clamor would die down. But his words did not reach the second row of seats. Ansel slipped forward to his side. “This is a put-up job!” he exclaimed, shouting to make himself heard above the uproar. “They are pretending to applaud because they think you dare not call them down for that. They’ll keep it up all evening if they get a chance, and you won’t be able to speak ten words.” In a front orchestra seat a man stood up waving a flag and bawling: “_Standish!_ _Standish!_ _We want_ STANDISH!” The rest of Billy Shevlin’s carefully drilled cohorts took up the cry, and it was chanted a hundred times to the accompaniment of resounding sticks and boot heels. The mayor beckoned a deputy sheriff from the wings. Pointing to the front-seat ringleader he commanded: “Put that fellow out.” The deputy descended the steps to the orchestra, grabbed the vociferating enthusiast by the collar and started to propel him up the aisle. In an instant, as though the action were a signal, every sound ceased. The house was as still as death. And through the silence soared the shrill, penetrating protest of the man who had just been collared. “You leave me be!” he yelled. “I’ve got as much right here as you have. An’ I’m earnin’ my money.” “What money!” shouted a trained querist in the gallery. “The cash Mr. Standish promised me for leadin’ the applause, of course. He’s payin’ me an’ the rest of the boys good, an’ we’re goin’ to earn our dough. _Standish!_ _Standish!_ _We want_——”