“He doesn’t,” replied Priscilla. “It was I who told him to take up the challenge. Oh, Mr. Forrester, we’re all sick to death of this vulgar talk, talk, talk day after day and night after night. Thank goodness that I have now a chance of turning from that unwholesome stuff to a good clean worthy job of butter making. I’ll win this election for my husband in the legitimate way of work as opposed to words.”
And she did win it for him.
By eleven o’clock the next morning she had turned the hall into a dairy, and in the daintiest dairymaid’s costume that had ever been seen, with her white arms bare to the elbow, she churned her milk and turned out pat after pat of the finest butter that had ever been seen in that neighbourhood. By the evening she had produced sufficient to stock a shop for a day, and she had leisure to make all the farmers’ daughters acquainted with the scientific tests by whose aid alone could the best results be obtained.
The only trouble that there was in carrying out her scheme was in regard to the regulation of the crowds of people who flocked from every quarter to see Mrs. Wingfield respond to the challenge that her husband had accepted on her behalf. The local police were quite unequal to the duty of marshalling the crowd. Volunteer stewards had to assist them to prevent the hall being rushed. But in spite of all their exertions the doors had to be closed several times during the afternoon. At the dinner hour of the working population the whole street was packed with interested young women and still more interested young men, and the sound of their cheering was as continuous as the firing of a battery of machine guns.
“What chance have I against that kind of thing, Forrester?” enquired Jack’s opponent of the manager of Mr. Wingfield’s party. “I suppose this is another of your clever tricks” he added, “I should be proud to be able to father it, but I am not,” said Mr. Forrester.
“You mean to say that you did not arrange for that challenge?”
“I do indeed. It was sprung on us—the whole thing was sprung on us. I give you my word for it. The fellow sang out some rot from the gallery, and while they were calling to put him out, Mrs. Wingfield saw her chance. She put Wingfield up to it, and he only did what she told him. I didn’t know where I was standing when I heard him accept the challenge; but in a minute or two I saw what could be made of it.”
“Butter! I don’t know what we are coming to in England when the grave issues of an election contest are decided in this way—I really don’t.”
“I’m not sure that that young woman hasn’t inaugurated, a new state of things. Speech-making is played out as an election force.”
“And butter-making is to take its place! Why not have a milking match between the candidates to decide which of them should be returned? Mrs. Wingfield is a clever young woman, and her husband’s a lucky man. We all thought him a bit of a juggins.”