They had watched his lips move, had scanned eagerly his dress
and the gowned and decorated dignitaries beside him; and then, with
blare of band and prancing of horses, he had been whirled down the dip
and curve of that long avenue, with its medley of meanness and thrift
and hurry and wealth, until, swinging sharply, the dim walls of the
White House rose before him. He entered with a sigh.
Then the vast welter of humanity dissolved and streamed hither and
thither, gaping and laughing until night, when thousands poured into the
red barn of the census shack and entered the artificial fairyland
within. The President walked through, smiling; the senators protected
their friends in the crush; and Harry Cresswell led his wife to a
little oasis of Southern ladies and gentlemen.
"This is democracy for you," said he, wiping his brow.
From a whirling eddy Mrs. Vanderpool waved at them, and they rescued
her.
"I think I am ready to go," she gasped. "Did you ever!"
"Come," Cresswell invited. But just then the crowd pushed them apart and
shot them along, and Mrs. Cresswell found herself clinging to her
husband amid two great whirling variegated throngs of driving,
white-faced people. The band crashed and blared; the people laughed and
pushed; and with rhythmic sound and swing the mighty throng was dancing.
It took much effort, but at last the Cresswell party escaped and rolled
off in their carriages.
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