ly a more terrible sight is to see that same ocean, as smooth as
oil, and the blue heavens smiling down, while the body of one that's
dear to you is lowered into it! So it was. With loose, wide stitches
they'd sewed the boy into canvas; and to the one foot of him they tied a
piece of an old grate-bar, and dropped him into that great ocean."

Tim saw Malone shoot a furtive glance sideways to learn how they were
taking it in the front row. Plainly he was not liking it, for he stood
up straight then and surveyed the rows of voters behind him. Tim waited,
and every man there knew why he waited. There was an indrawing of
breaths all over the hall. Malone, without showing the ordering
forefinger, sat down again.

Tim bowed to him. "Thank you, Mr. Malone, for that fighting chance,"
which remark brought out a quick burst of applause.

"Well, gentlemen, that poor old woman landed in the strange country.
Grief-stricken she was, but not yet utterly discouraged. The son Pat was
to meet her at the dock. He was not there. Well, she could see a good
reason for that. They could not leave their work--sometimes the bosses
were strict--they had often written so in their letters. No matter. With
not much left of her little savings, she bought a ticket and took the
train for the town where her two sons were working. Well, neither was
Pat at the station to greet her--but by and by she learned why.

"There had been a premature explosion in the quarries, and a fall of
rock had knocked Pat senseless; and as he lay there, unconscious, a
second blast came and killed him. Well, that was an awful thing; but
still there was the son John. And they had then to tell her of John.
Well, while Pat lay there helpless, another man had run in to carry him
out of danger. He was a brave man, that second man, for the flame of the
second fuse was then almost to the charge; but he ran in and he had the
injured man in his arms when the second explosion came. They were killed
together. That second man was her other son, John."

Tim paused; but he no longer had to ask their leave to speak. He was in
full swing; and out there, beyond the ends of his nervous, spreading
fingers, they were swinging with him. Sitting up straight and still they
were--or leaning forward, bent and eager.

A potent gift, the orator's. A writer may never hope to achieve
instantly his great intention. He is limited to monotonous-looking black
words on a blank page. But a speaker! Added to