“You bet it would, Mr. Endor. Sir Josiah is not everybody’s pretty boy, but he carries weight in this city. He’s a very honest man and he’s dead against ‘graft.’ It seems to me, sir, strictly between ourselves”—Mr. Ambrose Furley had all the shrewd penetration of a true Blackhamptonian—“that the U. P. is playing things up so high that there’s a poss-i-bil-ity, so far as Sir Munt is concerned, that it may overreach itself if it doesn’t watch it.”
“Good news if it is so. Can you suggest a means, Mr. Furley, of taking advantage of the fact?”
“Well sir, let us get down to brass tacks. Sir Munt is a bit of a One. He can’t be hustled. He can’t be driven. But he can see as far through a brick wall as most people. And last evening, as he was leaving the Floral Hall after the Sacred Harmonic Society’s annual performance of the Golden Legend in the company of Alderman Kearsley, another old-fashioned blue, he was overheard to remark, ‘I’m sorry to say it, Kearsley, but I’m afraid there’s going to be awful graft at this election.’”
The Member agreed.
“Coming from a gentleman in Sir Munt’s position those words mean a great deal. He knows very well that the graft is on his own side. The U. P. is so slick nowadays that it is beginning to give the Old Man cold feet. There’s such a thing as being too clever in this world, Mr. Endor, and strictly between you and me, sir, the over cleverness of the other side is the only chance we’ve got.”
At this point Mr. Ambrose Furley paused dramatically to readjust the cord of his eyeglasses round his left ear. It was an infallible sign on his part of constructive thought. “Do you know, sir,” he said after a long moment of silence, “what I should do if I were you? It may be a little infra dignitatem, but I should take the earliest opportunity of stepping across the Market Place to the Mayor’s Parlor and having a little heart-to-heart talk with Sir Munt. It may be infra dignitatem, as I say, but if you put the case against the U. P. only half as well as you put it in Parliament the other day, you’ll lose nothing by it. Sir Munt is a patriot, an imperialist, a protectionist, and all that, but when it comes to a showdown he’s a man who knows how many beans make five.”
The Agent’s argument found prompt favor in the sight of John Endor. It came to him, in fact, rather in the light of an inspiration. A shrewd race these Blackhamptonians! There and then he decided to have an interview with the famous and admired Sir Josiah Munt.
XXXV
“SIR MUNT,” for the nth time Mayor of Blackhampton,[A] was in his parlor at the City Hall, gazing into the heavens. A contraption rather like a monstrous aluminum fish shining in the October air hung above Market Square. At regular intervals of a minute or so there came fluttering down from the huge object in the sky a rain of leaflets. These varied in color and they fell upon the heads of the citizens.
At last, yet not without effort of will, Sir Munt set a term to his entrancement. He went across to his writing table and pressed the bell once. A small imp in a very tight suit of buttons promptly answered the summons.