“Mr. Speaker and gentlemen of the House,” he said, “if I desired to arouse the enthusiasm--the just enthusiasm--of any gathering in this House, or in this city, or in this state, I should mention the name of the Honorable Alva Hopkins of Gosport. I think I am right.” Mr. Jameson was interrupted, as he no doubt expected, by applause from floor and gallery. He stood rubbing his hands together, and it seemed to William Wetherell that the Speaker did not rap as sharply with his gavel as he had upon other occasions. “Gentlemen of the House,” continued Mr. Jameson, presently, “the Honorable Alva Hopkins, whom we all know and love, has with unparalleled generosity--unparalleled, I say--bought up three hundred and twelve seats in Fosters Opera House for to-morrow night” (renewed applause), “in order that every member of this august body may have the opportunity to witness that most classic of histrionic productions, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'.” (Loud applause, causing the Speaker to rap sharply.) “That we may show a proper appreciation of this compliment--I move you, Mr. Speaker, that the House adjourn not later than six o'clock to-morrow, Wednesday evening, not to meet again until Thursday morning.” Mr. Jameson of Wantage handed the resolution to a page and sat down amidst renewed applause. Mr. Wetherell noticed that many members turned in their seats as they clapped, and glancing along the gallery he caught a flash of red and perceived the radiant Miss Cassandra herself leaning over the rail, her hands clasped in ecstasy. Mr. Lovejoy was not with her--he evidently preferred to pay his attentions in private. “There she is again,” whispered Cynthia, who had taken an instinctive and extraordinary dislike to Miss Cassandra. Then Mr. Sutton rose majestically to put the question. “Gentlemen, are you ready for the question?” he cried. “All those in favor of the resolution of the gentleman from Wantage, Mr. Jameson--” the Speaker stopped abruptly. The legislators in the front seats swung around, and people in the gallery craned forward to see a member standing at his seat in the extreme rear of the hall. He was a little man in an ill-fitting coat, his wizened face clean-shaven save for the broom-shaped beard under his chin, which he now held in his hand. His thin, nasal voice was somehow absurdly penetrating as he addressed the chair. Mr. Sutton was apparently, for once, taken by surprise, and stared a moment, as though racking his brain for the name. “The gentleman from Suffolk, Mr. Heath,” he said, and smiling a little, sat down. The gentleman from Suffolk, still holding on to his beard, pitched in without preamble.