Free Of Time and the River by Thomas Wolfe

strength of an unshakable conviction—“this thing is different! We have reached a stage in our development that no other country in the world has ever known— that was never dreamed of before—a stage that is beyond booms, depressions, good times, hard times—anything—”
    “You mean that after this we shall never be affected by those things?”
    “Yes, sir!” he cried emphatically. “I mean just that! I mean that we have learned the causes for each of those conditions. I mean that we have learned how to check them, how to control them. I mean that so far as we are concerned they don’t EXIST any more!” His voice had become almost shrill with the force of his persuasive argument, and suddenly whipping a sheaf of envelopes, tied with a rubber band, out of his inner pocket, and gripping a stub of pencil in his stubby hand, he crossed his short fat legs with an energetic movement, bent forward poised above the envelopes, and said quietly but urgently:
    “See here, now!—I’d like to show you a few figures! My business, as you know, is to look after other people’s money—your money, the town’s money, everybody’s money—I’ve got to keep my fingers on the pulse of business at every moment of the day—my business is to KNOW—to KNOW—and let me tell you something,” he said quietly, looking directly in their eyes, “I DO know,—so pay attention just a moment while I show these figures to you.”
    And for some moments he spoke quietly, persuasively, his dark features packed with an energy of powerful conviction, while he rapidly jotted figures down upon the backs of the soiled envelopes, and they bent around him—their medicine-man of magic numerals—in an attitude of awed and rapt attentiveness. And when he had finished, there was silence for a moment, save for the rhythmic clack of wheels, the rocketing sound of the great train. Then one of the men, stroking his chin thoughtfully, and with an impressed air, said:
    “I see. . . . And you think, then, that in view of these conditions it would be better for the country if Harding is elected.”
    The little man’s manner became instantly cautious, non-committal, “conservative”:
    “I don’t say that,” he said, shaking his head in a movement of denial—“I only say that whoever gets elected we’re in for a period of unparalleled development. . . . Now both of them are good men— as I say, I shall probably vote for Cox—but you can rest assured,” he spoke deliberately and looked around him in his compelling way— “you can rest assured that no matter which one gets elected the country will be in good hands. There’s no question about that.”
    “Yes, sir,” said the florid-faced politician in his amiable and hearty way. “I agree with you. . . . I’m a Democrat myself, both in practice and in principle. I’m going to vote for Cox, but if Harding gets elected I won’t shed any tears over his election. We’ll have to give the Republicans credit for a good deed this time—they couldn’t have made a wiser or a better decision. He has a long and honourable career in the service of his country,”—as he spoke his voice unconsciously took on the sententious ring and lilt of the professional politician—“no breath of scandal has ever touched his name: in public and in private life he has remained as he began—a statesman loyal to the institutions of his country, a husband devoted to his family life, a plain American of simple tastes who loves his neighbours as himself, and prefers the quiet life of a little town, the democracy of the front porch, to the marble arches of the Capitol—so, whatever the result may be,” the orator concluded, “this nation need fear nothing: it has chosen well and wisely in both cases, its future is secure.”
    Mr. Flood, during the course of this impassioned flight, had remained ponderously unmoved. In the pause that followed, he sat impassively, his coarse-jowled face and bulging yellowed eyes