The leader's laugh cut him off again. “Friendly! Yes, that's what you were! Well, you can go back to your friends; you'll need them!--Mother in Heaven! How you fooled us! We thought you were the straightest man and the staunchest Democrat--” “I b'en a Democrat all my life, Mr. Hurlbut. I voted fer--” “Well, you're a Democrat no longer. You're done for, do you understand? And we're done with you!” “You mean,” the old man's voice shook almost beyond control; “you mean you're tryin' to read me out of the party?” “Trying to!” Hurlbut turned to the door. “You're out! It's done. You can thank God that your 'friends' did their work so well that we can't prove what we know. On my soul, you dog, if we could I believe some of the boys would send you over the road.” An hour after he had gone, Uncle Billy roused himself from his stupor, and the astonished landlady heard his shuffling step on the stair. She followed him softly and curiously to the front door, and watched him. He was bare-headed but had not far to go. The night-flare of the cheap, all-night saloon across the sodden street silhouetted the stooping figure for a moment and then the swinging doors shut the old man from her view. She returned to her parlour and sat waiting for his return until she fell asleep in her chair. She awoke at two o'clock, went to his room, and was aghast to find it still vacant. “The Lord have mercy on us all!” she cried aloud. “To think that old rascal'd go out on a spree! He'd better of stayed in the country where he belonged.” It was the next morning that the House received a shock which loosed another riot, but one of a kind different from that which greeted Representative Rollinson's vote on the “Breaker.” The reading-clerk had sung his way through an inconsequent bill; most of the members were buried in newspapers, gossiping, idling, or smoking in the lobbies, when a loud, cracked voice was heard shrilly demanding recognition. “Mr. Speaker!” Every one turned with a start. There was Uncle Billy, on his feet, violently waving his hands at the Speaker. “Mr. Speaker, Mr. Speaker, Mr. Speaker!” His dress was disordered and muddy; his eyes shone with a fierce, absurd, liquorish light; and with each syllable that he uttered his beard wagged to an unspeakable effect of comedy. He offered the most grotesque spectacle ever seen in that hall--a notable distinction. For a moment the House sat in paralytic astonishment. Then came an awed whisper from a Republican: “Has the old fool really found his voice?” “No, he's drunk,” said a neighbour. “I guess he can afford it, after his vote yesterday!” “Mister Speaker! _Mister_ Speaker!” The cracked voice startled the lobbies. The hangers-on, the typewriters, the janitors, the smoking members came pouring into the chamber and stood, transfixed and open-mouthed. “_Mister Speaker_!”