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 "Well," said Eddie, "don't name him after that bum."

Dot didn't answer. She was thinking of the five dollars Ted Monroe had sent for her to buy a gift for the baby. She was wondering what she ought to get.

New York was feverishly playing Mah Jong. Chicago was aghast at the crime of Loeb and Leopold. The East, South, North, and West were sending their delegates to the Democratic Convention. The bobbed-haired bandit had been caught. There was talk of Dempsey fighting Gibbons. A man named Wilson had died. But to Dot there was only one thing that had ever happened—she had become pregnant.

"You know," said Eddie, "there's something good going to be on the radio the first week of my vacation."

"What?"

"The Democratic Convention. They're going to broadcast it."

"What is it?"

"Oh, a lot of Democrats get together and pick out a fellow that they want to run against Coolidge."

"That don't sound good," said Dot.

"Well, I think it ought to be. Graham McNamee is gonna report it from WEAF and Major Andrew White from WJZ."

"It may be good then," Dot admitted at length.

"New York is gonna try to put Al Smith over," said Eddie, "but they won't do it, because he's a Catholic."

"I thought this was politics," said Dot.

Eddie looked doubtful. "Don't know much about it," he said, "but that's what the boss said. We'll listen though."

The Democratic Convention came with a waving of nags and a beating of drums. It came with its men and women from Texas, Maine, and the Dakotas. It came with its orators, charlatans, and idiots. It came with its