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But wait a bit! The Overseers, choosing their time, had this new list posted in the church porch at ten o’clock one morning; and having posted it, stepped across the road to the “George and Dragon.” The old inn used to stand slap opposite the church; and there, in the parlour-window, were assembled all the Duke’s men–Squire Martin and his son, Roger Newte, John a Hall, the Parson, and, all the rest of the gang–as well to see how the people would take it as to give the timorous Overseers a backing. This was Newte’s idea–to sit there in full view, put a bold face on it, and have the row–if row there was to be–over at once. And, to top it up, they had both the Whig candidates with them–these having arrived in Ardevora three days before, and begun their canvass, knowing that Parliament must be dissolved and the new writs issued in a few days at farthest.

Well, a crowd gathered at once about the list, and some ran off with the dare-devil news of it, while others hung about and grumbled and let out a few oaths every now and then and looked like men in two minds about stoning the windows opposite, where the Duke’s gang lounged as careless as brass, sipping their punch and covering the poor Overseers, that half expected to be ducked in the harbour sooner or later for their morning’s work.

For one solid hour they sat there, fairly daunting the crowd: but as the church clock struck eleven, Major Dyngwall, the candidate–that was talking to old Parson Polsue, and carrying it off very fairly–puts his eyeglass up of a sudden, and, says he, “Amazons, begad!” meaning, as I have heard it explained, that here were some out-of-the-common females.

And out of the common they were–Kit Lebow with her eight daughters, all wafting up the street like a bevy of peacocks in their best hoops and bonnets: Kit herself sailing afore, with her long malacca staff tap-tapping the cobbles, and her tall daughters behind like a bodyguard– two and two–Maria, Constantia, Elizabeth Jane, Perilla, Christian the Younger, Marcella, Thomasine, and Lally. Along she comes, marches up to the board–the crowd making way for her–and reads down the list. “H’m,” says she, and wheeling to the rightabout, marches straight across to the open window of the “George.”

“Give you good morning, gentlemen,” says she, dropping a curtsey. “I see you’ve a-put me on the Voters’ List; and, with your leave, I’d like a look at your candidates.”

“With pleasure, madam,” says Lord William, starting up from the table where he was writing at the back of the room, and coming forward with a bow. And Major Dyngwall bowed likewise to her and to the whole company of her daughters spreading out behind her like a fan. “Take your glass down from your eye, young man,” she said, addressing herself to the Major. “One window should be shelter enough for a sojer–and la! you’re none so ill-featured for a pair of Whigs.”

“Ay,” put in John a Hall, “they’ll stand comparisons with your Sammy Macann, mistress.” And he pitched to sing a verse of his invention, that the Whigs of the town afterwards got by heart–

“Doctor Macann
‘s an Irishman,
He’s got no business here;
Mister Saule
He’s nothin’ at all,
He won’t lev us have no beer.

“Well, indeed now,” answered Kitty, pitching her voice back for the crowd to hear, “’tis the Martins should know if the Macanns be Irish, and what business an Irishman has in Ardevora: for, if I recollect, the first Macann and the first Martin were shipwrecked together coming over from Dungarvan in a cattle-boat, and they do say ’twas Macann owned the cattle and Martin drove ’em. And as for Mr. Saule,” she went on, while the crowd grinned to see John a Hall turning red in the gills, “if he stops off the beer in this town, ’tis yourself will be the healthier for it, whoever’s hurt.”