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In the lobby of his hotel, on an unusually hot night for Upstate New York in late September, the habitually proper Cleveland was dripping with sweat. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as Bissell and Mahoney rounded up one delegate after another and introduced them to the bachelor mayor from Buffalo who was causing such a stir. It gave them, Cleveland said, a “chance to look me over. I came rather to enjoy it.”

Reporters from the New York City newspapers also got to check out this intriguing new figure in politics. Watching him in action in the hotel lobby, the correspondent from The New York Times sent a dispatch describing Grover Cleveland to the citizens of the largest city in America:

His features are regular and full of intelligent expression. His eyes are dark and penetrating in their glances. He wears no beard, but a heavy dark mustache completely covers his mouth, and underneath is a square, firm chin. In his movements Mr. Cleveland is deliberate, dignified and graceful.

Finally, after Cleveland had finished his politicking in the hotel lobby, he went to pay his respects to the state chairman, Daniel Manning. It was the first time they had met.

In his hotel room, Manning shrewdly checked his temper. Maybe Edgar Apgar was right and Cleveland did represent the future of the party. Considering everything that was at stake, Cleveland left Manning on gracious terms. Definitely they could do business together down the road.

As far as Cleveland was concerned, his work was done. At 2:00 a.m., still shaking his head at the “novel experience” of his Syracuse adventure, he boarded a train back to Buffalo and was back at his desk at City Hall the same morning, where he awaited the outcome of the vote.

The convention at the Grand Opera House was called to order at 10:20 a.m. Poor lighting, combined with great clouds of cigar smoke, made it almost impossible to see from one end to the other. Dan Lockwood placed Cleveland’s name in nomination. He delivered a frosty speech that apparently did his candidate no good. Fortunately for Cleveland, the slender figure of Edgar Apgar made its way to the rostrum to second the nomination. Apgar spoke from the heart. He pointed to Cleveland’s machine-busting record as mayor. Here, at last, was a politician who was free of all political entanglements. Cleveland was beholden to no one. And he was the only candidate among the Democrats who Republicans would feel comfortable voting for. When Apgar was finished, the audience cheered.

“He had achieved that rare result in a political convention—he had changed votes.”

The delegates were called to order, and the balloting began. Tim Mahoney had cunningly packed the balcony with his Irish American chums, and when the first vote was recorded on the Grover Cleveland column, on cue, every Mahoney man bellowed their approval. The convention floor shook with the applause of the Clevelandites. At least from the peanut gallery, Cleveland was top choice.

The forces of Daniel Manning held solid. Every single one delivered for Slocum.

When the votes on the first ballot were tabulated, it went as predicted: Slocum had 98 and Flower 97. Cleveland’s support stood at 66. Another hundred votes were scattered among lesser candidates and favorite sons.

On the second ballot, Slocum and Flower gained, each polling 123. Cleveland garnered only 5 additional votes. The convention stood at a deadlock. But all the zeal seemed to be for Cleveland. Each new vote added to the Cleveland column produced scenes of pandemonium in the gallery. The people—at least Mahoney’s people—were screaming for a new kind of politics.

Still confident of victory, Congressman Flower buttonholed a Cleveland delegate from Buffalo and demanded to know which way Erie County would go once it was realized the Cleveland candidacy was doomed.

“Grover Cleveland,” came the response.

Flower blinked. Perhaps the chap did not understand the question. “But after you’re satisfied he can’t win, after you get through voting for him, who next?”

“Grover Cleveland.”

On the third