That was his style of oratory, and it did very well. But of course, he was not always so successful as he was upon this occasion in dragging in a connection between one of his stories and an election topic. Priscilla was not always at hand to give him a hint of the possibility of turning a story to good account. But his audience cared no more for the appropriateness of a story to an election issue than children care for the moral of a fable. They wanted to be entertained and he entertained them, and they found him a jolly good fellow, and affirmed their belief in varying keys the moment he got upon his legs and the moment he sat down.
Mr. Forrester began to feel that there was more than a likelihood that the Wingfields would win. He took care to arrange with the local organization to have a sufficient number of sound dull speakers to precede Jack’s efforts and to follow them up. The difficulty of providing such speakers is never insuperable in an agricultural constituency, or for that matter, in any other constituency.
But the coup de theatre of Jack’s campaign was due to the happy accident of a conscientious objector—not one of those who had been provided by the management—being present in the gallery one night, when Mr. Wingfield had been affirming (for the fiftieth time) that he was heart and soul an agriculturist.
“Look here, mister,” this person sang out. “Look here, we’ve heard a deal about you and the lady (cheers and cries of ‘Turn him out!’) No, nobody will turn me out.”
“You’re right there, my lad,” cried Jack. “We don’t want anybody turned out. We want somebody turned in—into Parliament, and I’ve the authority of that person for saying that he doesn’t want to be turned in by turning other people out. Go on, my friend. It’s a free country.”
“So I was hoping, sir. Well, what I want to know is this. Did ever you or your lady do a real day’s work yourselves? That’s what I want to know.”
There was some laughter and some confusion at the back of the hall, for it seemed that there were conscientious ejectors present as well as the conscientious objector. While order was being restored, Priscilla said something in Jack’s ear, and at once he held up his hand for silence.
“Our friend has thrown us down a challenge, and we’re only too glad to take it up,” he cried. “Has either of us ever done a real day’s work? he asks. Well, here’s my wife’s answer. Here we are in this hall to-night. Now, to-morrow morning at 10 o’clock my wife will show all who honour her with a visit in this place whether anyone in this neighbourhood can tell her something she doesn’t know in dairy work. She’ll do a day’s butter making with her own hands, and you’ll be able to judge for yourselves whether or not I have been over or under the mark in my claim that we understand what we’re talking about. If my speeches here haven’t contained much butter it’s not because we don’t know what the real thing is or that one of us at least can’t make it with it the best in the land. There’s no duchess in this country or any other that can beat Mrs. Wingfield at butter making (laughter), but it’s not for me to talk to you of it; you come here, any of you that know what butter is, and you can judge for yourselves to-morrow and maybe the day after. One friend up there talked of a single day’s real work. Well, we accept his challenge and double the task—two days—three—four—if he insists. Now, mind you, this is no joke. You’ll find that it’s no joke if any of you hope to beat the butter that will be made here to-morrow and as much longer as you please.”
He sat down “amid a scene of indescribable enthusiasm,” as the local newspapers had it, only they said that “he resumed his seat.” The man who had asked that question from the gallery was the driver of a traction engine, and he had long been suspected of harbouring unworthy socialistic theories. He thought it prudent to leave the hall before the close of the meeting.
“How will you get out of it?” asked Mr. Forrester of Priscilla. “That husband of yours has either made himself or marred himself by his attempt to get the better of that man in the gallery. How does he mean you to get out of the business?”