The next day was the last before the election. The little market of Bildborough was in a state of considerable excitement. Several open-air meetings were held toward evening. Eve and I, returning from a motor tour of the constituency, called at the office of my agent. We chatted with Mr. Ansell for a little while and then he pointed across the square.
"There's an American there," he said, "that the other side seems to have got hold of. He's their most popular speaker by a long way; but I gather they're a little uneasy about him. Didn't I have the pleasure of meeting him at your house?"
"Mr. Bundercombe!" I sighed. "He came down here to help me!"
Mr. Ansell put on his hat and beckoned mysteriously.
"Come out by the back way," he invited. "We shall hear him. He is going to speak from the little platform there."
By crossing a hotel yard, a fragment of kitchen garden and a bowling green, we were able to come within a few yards of where Mr. Bundercombe, with several other of Mr. Horrocks' supporters, was standing upon a small raised platform. Two local tradesmen and one helper from London addressed a few remarks of the usual sort to an apathetic audience, which was rapidly increasing in size. It was only when Mr. Bundercombe rose to his feet that the slightest sign of enthusiasm manifested itself. Eve looked at me with a pleased smile.
"Just look at all of them," she whispered, "how they are hurrying to hear dad speak!"
"That's all very well," I grumbled; "but he ought to be doing this for me."
Her fingers pressed my arm.
"Listen!" she said.