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“An excellent suggestion!” put in Mr. Newte. “I was about to make it myself. There’s nothing like telling the truth, after all: and I’ll take care it doesn’t get about the town till the poll’s closed.”

Well, so it was arranged: and early next morning, after dressing himself very carefully and making sure that Lord William couldn’t leave his room (he was as yellow as an egg, poor fellow, with a kind of mild janders), away the Major starts upon his errand, promising to be back by seven, to be driven down to the poll behind a brass band.

On the stroke of eight, when Roger Newte, as Mayor and Returning Officer, declared the poll open, down the street came the blue-and-gold band, with Dr. Macann and Mr. Saule behind it bowing and smiling in a two-horse shay, and a fine pillaloo of supporters. They cheered like mad to find themselves first in the field, though disappointed in their hearts (I believe), having counted on a turn-up with the opposition band, just to start the day sociably. The Tory candidates climbed the hustings, and there the Doctor fired off six speeches and Mr. Saule a couple, while the votes came rolling in like pennies at the door of a menagerie. And still no sign of the Whigs, nor sound of any band from the direction of Tregoose. By half-past eight Roger Newte was looking nervous, and began to send off small boys to hurry his friends up. Towards nine o’clock Dr. Macann made another speech, and set the crowd roaring with “‘Tis the voice of the sluggard,” out of Dr. Watts’s hymn-book. “But I don’t even hear his voice!” said he, very facetious-like: and “Seriously, gentlemen, my Whig friends might be more careful of your feelings. We know that they consider Ardevora their own: but they might at least avoid insulting the British Liberty they have injured,”–telling words, these, I can assure you. “Nor,” he went on, “is it quite fair treatment of our worthy Mayor here, who cannot be expected, single-handed, to defy you as he defied the Court of King’s Bench and treat your votes as he treated your Rate List.” Newte had to stand there and swallow this, though it was poison to him, and he swore next day he’d willingly spend ten years in the pit of the wicked for getting quits with Macann. But what fairly knocked the fight out of him was to see, five minutes later, old Parson Polsue totter up the steps towards him with a jaw stuck out like a mule’s, and Grandison behind, and all their contingent. Though made up of Tories to a man, the crowd couldn’t help hissing; but it affected the old Parson not a doit.

“Macann and Saule,” said he, speaking up sharp and loud: and at the names the hissing became a cheer fit to lift the roofs off their eaves.

Newte fairly forgot himself. “Ha–haven’t you seen Major Dyngwall this morning?” he managed to ask.

And with that the crowd below parted, and John a Hall came roaring through it like a bull.

“Where’s the Major? Major Dyngwall! Who’s seen Major Dyngwall?”

“Ay, we’re all asking that?” called out some person, sarcastic-like: and all began to laugh and to boo. But John a Hall caught at the rail and swung himself up the steps.

“You thundering fools!” he bellowed. “Is it foul play that tickles you? One of our candidates you’ve contrived to poison, and I’ve left him at Tregoose between life and death. What have you done with the other?” By this time he had the mob fairly hushed and gaping. “What have you done with the other?” he shouted, banging his fist down on the Returning Officer’s table. “Let Parson Polsue speak first, for to my knowledge the Major was bound for his lodgings when last seen.”