Then there is the chairman. You never can tell what sort of
surprise is in store for you. In a Massachusetts town last winter
I was hailed on the stage by one of his tribe, a gaunt, funereal
sort of man, who wanted to know what he should say about me.
"Oh," said I, in a spirit of levity, "say anything you like. Say
I am the most distinguished citizen in the country. They generally
do."
Whereupon my funereal friend marched upon the stage and calmly
announced to the audience that he did not know this man Riis, whom
he was charged with introducing, never heard of him.
"He tells me," he went on with never a wink, "that he is the most
distinguished citizen in the country. You can judge for yourselves
when you have heard him."
I thought at first it was some bad kind of joke; but no! He was
not that kind of man. I do not suppose he had smiled since he was
born. Maybe he was an undertaker. Assuredly, he ought to be. But
he had bowels after all. Instead of going off the stage and leaving
me blue with rage, he stayed to exhort the audience in a fifteen
minutes' speech to vote right, or something of that sort.
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