“Most assuredly!” he declared.
“I shall vote for Mr. ——,” said I.
And so I should, had I not gone to one of his meetings in the Town Hall. He, too, spoke eloquently about Tariff Reform and a Navy that would keep our country what it was; but in the midst of it, a cockney voice endeavoured to heckle him from the back of the hall.
“’Ow about ’Ome Rule?” shouted the voice.
The Unionist candidate had been heckled before.
“How about it?” he asked sharply, like the crack of a pistol.
“Are you going to let the Roman Catholics get the ’old in Ireland?”
“And make them a menace to England, too—do you think it’s likely?” replied the candidate.
I walked away. “The vote,” said I to myself, “the vote is only a catchpenny title for a popular game. It would be much better to gamble than vote. You might get something for your money if you backed the right man with a shilling; but you get nothing for backing him with your vote. In future,” said I, “I shall bet.”