Bob Allen nominated Zaanan. He made no speech, simply mounted the platform and announced that he placed the name of Zaanan Frame before the caucus as a candidate for the justiceship. It was a form, that was all. Then he stepped down. “Any secondin’ speech?” asked the chairman—a form, too. “Calc’late there is,” said a voice at the rear of the hall, and Steve Gilders arose, for once detached from the rifle which had grown to be as much a part of him as his arms. As Steve walked forward, indeed, as the first of his words fell on the ears of the body, it became silent. Men looked at one another, felt a tenseness in the air, an apprehension. A small boy walked by Steve’s side, his hand in Steve’s. Together they mounted the platform, stood facing the hall. “I’m here to second that there nomination,” Steve said, harshly. “Bein’s I haint taught in speech-makin’ I fetched help. But I figger the boy and me’ll be able to make out.” He got down on one knee so his face was on a level with the child’s. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Steve,” said the little one. “What’s your other name?” “Hain’t got none.” Every man, every woman, in the house was straining forward. Here was something not to be expected by any; something fraught with meaning. Michael Moran was of those whose eyes were fixed on the two figures. He half arose to his feet, then sank back, face distorted, fists clenched. “Who was your ma?” Steve asked, in a voice that chilled. “Susie Gilders.” “Where is she?” “She’s dead.” “What killed her?” “She did,” said the child, his lips quivering. “Why?” “On account of me.” The gallery became audible—it gasped once, then was silent again. “Who is your pa?” Steve went on, inexorably. “Michael Moran.” “Who do you hate?” “Michael Moran.” Steve arose, lifted the child above his head. “Look at him, folks,” he said; “he’s secondin’ the nomination of Zaanan Frame.” He turned, now leading the boy, descended from the platform, passed down the aisle toward the rear of the hall. The child’s coat brushed Moran’s sleeve, unconscious of whom it passed. Moran shrank away from the touch. Nobody spoke, nobody moved, save Moran. He leaped to his feet, face working with rage, with shame, with the ignominy of it. “It’s a lie!” he shouted. “It’s the truth!” Steve Gilders said over his shoulder. In the gallery a woman stood. She pointed downward to an individual on the floor. “Tom Samson,” she said, shrilly, “you’re goin’ to vote now. Vote right or don’t come home to me.” Another woman dared equally. “You, too, George Perkins.” Woman after woman was on her feet, singling out her man, letting him hear her voice in this matter. The vote was taken in silence, counted in silence. The hall awaited its announcement in silence. Three votes were cast for Peleg Goodwin, the rest for Zaanan Frame.