Others had been surprised by it. Not a few husbands had remarked upon it to wives as they left their housework and departed. Some wives had evaded questions; the bolder ones and the majority did not hesitate to inform their husbands, in words easily understood, that their reasons for going to the caucus were nobody’s business but their own. The monotonous routine of organization was completed. Throughout, Peleg Goodwin had been in the public eye. He was a figure of importance. He already assumed the dignity of the office which was to be his as it had once been Zaanan’s. Peleg had views as to his future. What Zaanan had done Peleg could do. True, Moran was putting him where he was; but later—Peleg would see to that. His bearing was feudal. The gallery had watched impatiently, if silently. So this was polities? So these futilely buzzing, smoking, lounging male creatures below were actually their husbands exercising a high rite of citizenship! It was monotonous. It even moved some of them to giggles. Many of them had invested the caucus with the dignity of mystery, with a certain pomp and regality. Now they saw it as it was, in no wise different from a casual gathering round the wood-stove in the post-office on any day in winter. “So that’s how it’s done,” said the Widow Stickney. “Huh! ’Tain’t much more glitterin’ than peelin’ potaters. And I doubt if it’s as useful.” But when the moment arrived for nominations for the office of justice of the peace, the women leaned forward, interested, not to miss a phase of it. Young Lawyer Bourne placed Peleg in nomination, did so noisily, flamboyantly, with waving of arms and screaming of eagle. He mentioned Peleg as Peleg had never been mentioned before. If the young man had not mentioned Peleg’s name at the outset, that worthy candidate would not himself have recognized the subject of the speech. But Peleg enjoyed it. Maybe that’s what he really was and hadn’t realized it; maybe that’s what his fellow-men had been thinking about him for years, wasted years. Why, with such regard he might have risen to the Governor’s chair! “Look at Peleg,” whispered the widow. “If somebody don’t tie a strap round his chist he’s a-goin’ to bust.” Peleg’s nomination was duly seconded, not by Michael Moran, for Moran’s residence was elsewhere, but to Moran’s satisfaction. He sat on the aisle, well toward the front, and had been the recipient of much attention. Easily Moran was the dominant figure of the body. Why should he not be, on this his day of victory over his enemies? Zaanan sat motionless, spoke to no one, paid no attention to what went forward. He was there, that was all. It seemed as if he had come from, habit, not from interest. After the first few moments he was forgotten, unnoticed. Zaanan had been moved on to oblivion.