The Mayor's forecast, based on a lifelong observation of his neighbors, proved only too correct. Dr. Spink entered the lists against Roberts, and was elected by every vote save one. Sir Harry Fulmer, in blind and devoted obedience to Tora Smith, voted for Roberts; the rest, headed by the Squire, installed his rival in his place; and the Squire, having sternly done his duty, sat down and wrote a long and friendly letter of remonstrance and explanation to his erring friend.
As misfortune followed misfortune, the Doctor set his teeth, and dared fate to do her worst. He waited a few days, hoping to be comforted by a word of approval from his master; none came. At last he determined to seek out Dale Bannister, and was about to start when his wife came in and gave him the new issue of the Chronicle. Ethel Roberts was pale and weary-looking, and she glanced anxiously at her husband.
"I am going up to Littlehill," he said.
"Have you done your round, dear?"
"My round doesn't take long nowadays. Maggs will give me fifteen pounds for the pony: you know we don't want him now."
"No, Jim, and we do want fifteen pounds."
"What's that?"
"The Chronicle, dear. There's—a letter from Mr. Bannister."
"Is there? Good! Let's see what Bannister has to say to these bigoted idiots."