14 BOOK OF A HUNDRED BEARS 



oughly by a White House stenographer, the irony 

 of his statement struck me as subtle, at least. At 

 ten the next morning we met again to hear read the 

 platform "prepared" by the sub-committee. The 

 chairman read it, with his broad New England 

 a's, rolling his r's, and savoring its platitudes as 

 though he were the author. Suddenly the senator 

 from Kohosh arose. It was the railroad plank. 

 "I object to that word. It closes the door. It 

 promises nothing." The senator had been drunk 

 the night before. That particular compound of 

 gin had left its brunette effect. Besides, he sus- 

 pected the administration of an intention of 

 unseating his delegation. 'The senator from 

 Kohosh objects," twittered the chairman. "Yes." 

 "What does the senator suggest?" "I have no 

 suggestion to make. I merely object," and the 

 senator relapsed into dipsetic gloom. The 

 chairman looked helplessly about. There was 

 no telephone. The White House was inaccessible. 

 His whiskers quivered. A visible crepitation ran 

 through the forty odd members of the committee. 

 Would they dare to change this inspired platform, 



