me, yet in conflict with the pressure of this
necessity there persisted that old rebellion, that bitterness which had
been growing all these years against the man who, above all others,
seemed to me to represent the forces setting at nought my achievements,
bringing me to this pass....

I thought of appealing to Leonard Dickinson, who surely, if he knew of
it, would not permit this thing to be done; and he was the only man with
the possible exception of Miller Gorse who might be able to restrain Judd
Jason. But I delayed until after the luncheon hour, when I called up the
bank on the telephone, to discover that it was closed. I had forgotten
that the day was Saturday. I was prepared to say that I would withdraw
from the campaign, warn Krebs myself if this kind of tactics were not
suppressed. But I could not get the banker. Then I began to have doubts
of Dickinson's power in the matter. Judd Jason had never been tractable,
by any means; he had always maintained a considerable independence of the
financial powers, and to-day not only financial control, but the
dominance of Jason himself was at stake. He would fight for it to the
last ditch, and make use of any means. No, it was of no use to appeal to
him. What then? Well, there was a reaction, or an attempt at one. Krebs
had not been born yesterday, he had avoided the wiles of the politicians
heretofore, he wouldn't be fool enough to be taken in now. I told myself
that if I were not in a state bordering on a nervous breakdown, I should
laugh at such morbid fears, I steadied myself sufficiently to dictate the
extract from my speech that was to be published. I was to make addresses
at two halls, alternating with Parks, the mayoralty candidate. At four
o'clock I went back to my room in the Club to try to get some rest....

Seddon's Hall, the place of my first meeting, was jammed that Saturday
night. I went through my speech automatically, as in a dream, the habit
of long years asserting itself. And yet--so I was told afterwards--my
delivery was not mechanical, and I actually achieved more emphasis, gave
a greater impression of conviction than at any time since the night I had
lost my control and violently denounced the reformers. By some
astonishing subconscious process I had regained my manner, but the
applause came to me as from a distance. Not only was my mind not there;
it did not seem to be anywhere. I was dazed, nor did I feel--save once--a
fleeting surge of contempt f