"I say, Kilshaw," called Captain Heseltine, who
was by the window, "if you want to hear what you are, you'd better come here. Todd's letting you have it."
Kilshaw lounged to the window and put his head out, smiling scornfully.
"A lot of loafers and thieves," he remarked.
The crowd saw him. He was the especial object of their anger, ever since his share in Benyon's career had become public. He was greeted with an angry yell; the orator, seizing the occasion, shook a huge fist at him. Kilshaw laughed in reply, holding his cigar in his hand. There was an ugly rush at the Club door; an answering charge from the police; some oaths and some screams.
"You'd better vanish," suggested the Captain. "Your popularity is momentarily eclipsed."
"Damn the fellows," said Kilshaw. "They may storm the place if they like—I'll not move."
Matters were indeed becoming somewhat critical, when a loud shout was heard from in front of the Hall. The crowd forgot Kilshaw, forgot Mr. Todd, and rushed across the road. The first result was up!
For the next half-hour wild exultation reigned in the streets, and gloom predominated in the Club. The Kirton returns came out first, and, as the Chief Justice had prophesied, Medland swept the capital from end to end. A solid band of twenty members was elected in his interest, and he himself had an immense majority. The crowd was beside itself; all thought of defeat was at an end; they
began to laugh, and smoke, and dive into the taverns in friendly groups to drink; they even flung jests up at Kilshaw, and only hooted good-humouredly when he cried,