“Some of you men that’s here to-day has money in your pockets that don’t b’long there. It’s Michael Moran’s money. For a dollar or two, that’ll be spent and forgot in a week, you sold somethin’ that’s next worse to sell than the decency of your homes. You sold somethin’ that men have fought for and give their all for. The whole of this here nation’s built up on you and others like you. You’re a part of the Gov’ment; the nation trusts each feller to do his votin’ and his politics to the best of his judgment. But you hain’t done that. You’ve up and sold your votes. I calc’late I hain’t never been more ashamed. At the door of this op’ry-house is Dolf Springer holdin’ a bushel basket. He’s holdin’ it in plain sight of all. If you that’s took money hopes to have my respect, and the respect of your wives and mothers and daughters, you’ll rise now and march past Dolf, and you’ll chuck into that basket the Judas-money that’s soilin’ your pockets. Now, I’m waitin’.” They looked at one another shamefaced, each man afraid to be the first to rise. “Tom Samson,” came his wife’s voice, “you head that percession.” There was the hint of a nervous laugh from the men, but Tom got to his feet. “Zaanan,” he said, shakily, “I’m a dum sight more ashamed ’n you be of me,” and he marched to make his deposit in Dolf’s basket. It was a procession. Men formed in line behind Tom, and there were leathery faces that felt for the first time in many years the down-trickle of tears. Zaanan was wiping his eyes unashamed. Audible sobs descended from the gallery. The atmosphere was that of a revival—it was a revival, a moment of regeneration, a moment that would linger in the minds of those men as long as mind and body remained bound together. The line filed past Dolf and the men returned to their seats. “I calc’late the business of this caucus is about over,” Zaanan said. “When what’s left to be done is over I wisht Parson Bloom ’u’d say a benediction. ’Tain’t usual at sich meetin’s, but ’twon’t do any harm.” So it was done. Aged Parson Bloom mounted the platform, his silvery head bared, and held his arms extended over them. His words were few, simple: “‘The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another.’” Then they passed out, leaving Zaanan alone on the platform, seated in a huge arm-chair, his head bent wearily, his face in his hands. CHAPTER XXV Jim, in what might be termed a ramshackle physical condition, drove to town the morning of the caucus. His left arm occupied a sling. He had not seen Marie. She would not have known him had he seen her, for she lay in the borderland, not delirious, not unconscious wholly, but strangely indifferent, still. He did not wish to see her.