“You are the man that’s wanted at this time,” resumed Forrester. “By the way, what are your politics?”
“What politics do you want?” asked Jack. “I fancy that if I were to stand I could accommodate you; but I shan’t.”
“You’re the man for us. Most of us inherit our politics with the family Bible and our grandfather’s clock, and we rarely change them, unless, like our young Zimri—the unsuccessful Zimri—we are at the tail end of a Parliament, and are certain that there will be a change of government in the next—a change of government has usually meant a change of politics with the family of our aspiring Zimri. His father was the successful Zimri, but he didn’t have peace; and the founder of the family elevated Zimriism to a fine art—he didn’t have peace either—on the contrary, he had a wife. All things are possible with such men; but I don’t care what your politics are; we’ll put you in for Nuttingford, if you’ll agree to stand.”
“This is rot, Forrester, and you know it. What good shall I be in your House of Commons? What good shall I be to your blessed Party anyway?”
Mr. Forrester could quite easily have answered this question, had it been prudent to do so. He could have told him that he was wanted by the Party because there was a difficulty with two men, each of whom believed that he had a right to the reversion of the seat, and would certainly contest it in view of the other coming forward. In such a case the seat would undoubtedly be seized by the solitary representative of the Other Party. But Mr. Forrester perceived that such an explanation would occupy a good deal of valuable time; and he wished to spare his friend and his friend’s charming wife an acquaintance with details which possibly a man, and certainly a woman, looking into the arena of politics from a private box, might regard as sordid. So he merely laid his hand on his friend’s knee, and said:
“Leave that to us, my dear Wingfield. You may be sure that we would not take you up unless we saw that you could do something for us that would pay us for our trouble. Now, don’t you decide against us in a hurry. Talk the matter over with Mrs. Wingfield. I wouldn’t give much for a man who didn’t take his wife into his confidence on such important things.”
“And how much would you give for a man who did, and then decided by her advice against you?” asked Jack.
“The constituency is a peculiar one,” said Forrester, ignoring the question. “They hate politics. If we were to send them a well-known politician he would have no chance with them. What they want is a man like yourself—a simple ordinary, everyday, good-wearing English gentleman—plain commonsense—that’s what they want; nothing very definite in the way of a programme; they don’t want a windbag or a gasometer; they’re not going in for air ships at Nuttingford. You know what Cotton is?”
“Cotton? Who the mischief is Cotton that I should know of him?”
“That’s the best proof of the accuracy of what I’ve been telling you. Cotton is the man who has sat for the constituency for the past fifteen years, and yet nobody has heard of him.”