"Slave of the priests!" sputtered his antagonist.
"If I am a slave of the priests, then you are a slave of that villain Shund," retorted Holt. "I am not to be browbeaten--by such a fellow as you particularly--least of all by a vile slave of Shund's." He spoke, and then reached his ticket to the commissary.
"That is an impudent dog," growled leader Sand. "Who is he?"
"He is a countryman of the name of Holt," answered he to whom the query was addressed.
"We must spot the boor," said Erdfloh. "His swaggering shall not avail him anything."
Holt was not the only voter that proved refractory. Mr. Schwefel, also, had a disagreeable surprise. He was standing near the entrance, observing with great self-complacency how the workmen in his employ submissively cast their votes for Shund and his associates. Schwefel regarded himself as of signal importance in the commonwealth, for he controlled not less than four hundred votes, and the side which it was his pleasure to favor could not fail of victory. The head of the great leader seemed in a manner encircled with the halo of progress: whilst his retainers passed and saluted him, he experienced something akin to the pride of a field-marshal reviewing a column of his victorious army.
Just then a spare little man appeared in the door. His yellowish, sickly complexion gave evidence that he was employed in the sulphurating of straw. At sight of the commander the sulphur-hued little man shrank back, but his startled look did not escape the restless eye of Mr. Schwefel. He beckoned to the laborer.
"Have you selected your ticket, Leicht?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let me see the ticket."