He smiled as he read through the sentence; that was what the Christian martyr might say to the two lions who had scraped acquaintance over his bones in the amphitheatre.
One warm afternoon in the summer of 1918, Mr. Hobart, Clerk to the Wibley Town Council, was disturbed in the midst of his duties by the sudden entry into his office of a small dark man, dressed in corduroys and gaiters, but not having the air of a genuine agricultural labourer.
“What may I do for you?” inquired Mr. Hobart.
“I have come to inquire about my vote,” said the stranger.
“Aren’t you already registered?”
“Not yet. You see, it isn’t long since the Act was passed giving us the vote.”
Mr. Hobart stared.
“I don’t quite follow,” he said.
“I may not look it,” said the stranger, putting his head on one side and looking arch—“I may not look it, but I will confess to you, Mr.—er—Mr.—er——”