"You—cannot—do?" he repeated in sur prise. The moment of silence that followed was painful to both men—the one throwing his life's happiness away ior what he believed to be right, the other wounded with crudest wound man may know—the stab of a friend. "Governor," said the Speaker, trying to speak gently, "I would vote neither for nor against this bill, for the reasons that make Senator Rivers advocate it at this time and make you oppose it. He is urging it for no other reason than that he wishes to do it over your objections. There were men who voted for the bill in the Senate and there will be men who will vote for it in the House who will not vote for it in that spirit at all. They will vote for it because they think it is right." "You have been out in the State a little," said the Governor, "and you know how the people feel about it." "Yes, I do know," the Speaker said, "but the people do not know always what they do want or what is good for them." "Suppose the Rivers bill is a good bill, is it so urgent it should be passed at this ses sion? Most of us had thought it a rather unimportant matter." '.'Very few people—surely not Senator Rivers—realize its importance. It may be that in five years the Rivers bill, should it pass, will be repealed or so amended its best friends would hardly recognize it. But it ¡3 the entering wedge for a class of legislation of which this State stands in need." "You are determined to vote for this bill?" asked the Governor after a pause. "I cannot vote against it for the simple reason that it is unpopular while I recognize it to be right," the Speaker replied. "Then," said the Governor, "it is hardly necessary to continue the interview." The hint was too broad to be mistaken, and the Speaker withdrew. I have heard men go into excited raptures
telling their sensation watching the tide of battle on historic fields; I have even seen them get into a frenzy describing some great sporting event they have witnessed. But to me there is nothing so thrilling as those battles of ballots and brains and eloquence that are fought out on the floors of our Con gress and our State Legislatures. There is no great plain there for the crushing sweep of legions or the fierce charges of maddened infantry. In the arena of a law-making body men come together in mortal combat, and each man must look out for himself as best he may. There was a feeling of intense excitement in the House the afternoon that the Rivers bill came up for a vote. Two or three timid members, whose consciences would not allow them to vote against the bill and whose con stituents would not allow them to vote for it, had absented themselves, but eighty-eight members responded to the roll-call. When the roll-call began on the Rivers bill almost every man seized the long printed slips bear ing the members' names and began checking them off as they voted. The first man voted for the bill, the next two against it. Then it stood five for and three against. As the vote proceeded the Rivers forces gained strength as man after man "climbed into the band wagon." When my name was called I voted against the bill, but I continued to check the names off nervously, counting the vote as I went on. It was very close. The bill requiring sixty-seven votes to pass it over the Gov ernor's objections—two-thirds of the mem bers-elect. When the bottom of the slip had been reached I almost leaped from my chair in my excitement. The vote stood: Ayes, 66; nays, 21. Then the voice of the clerk of the House was heard demanding the last vote: "Speaker." "Aye," came the answer quietly and firmly. That evening the Speaker's messenger
