I looked straight at him and said:
"Do you mean, sir, to put politics before matrimonial happiness?"
"No, I don't," said he, "but a girl can't expect matrimonial happiness with a Radical."
I saw that Jone was about to say something here, but I got in ahead of him.
"I will tell you what it is, sir," said I, "if you think it is wrong to be a Radical the best thing you can do is to write to your friend, that vicar, and advise him to get those two young people married as soon as possible, for it is easy to see that she is going to rule the roost, and if anybody can get his Radicalistics out of him she will be the one to do it."
Mr. Poplington laughed, and said that as the man looked as if he was a fit subject to be henpecked it might be a good way of getting another Tory vote.
"But," said he, "I should think it would go against your conscience, being naturally opposed to the Conservatives, to help even by one vote."
"Oh, my conscience is all right," said I. "When politics runs against the matrimonial altar I stand up for the altar."
"Well," said he, "I'll think of it." And we started off, walking down the hill, Jone holding on to my tricycle.
When we got to level ground, with about two miles to go before we would stop for luncheon, Jone took a piece of thin rope out of his pocket—he always carries some sort of cord in case of accidents—and he tied it to the back part of my machine.