The man whom the agent had prompted now rose and addressed Marbury:
"Will Lord Marbury tell us what title Mr. Jordan has to call himself the farmer's friend?"
Marbury rose, and picked a cutting of Jordan's speech from the table.
He read aloud the passages Peter had heard at breakfast, and deftly played with them. Peter admired the ease with which Mr. Jordan's pretensions as a farmer were justly measured without any assumption in Marbury of superiority or rural snobbisme. His speech was pointed throughout with hearty laughter and cheers. It effectually countered the speech of his opponent, but it gave no handle anywhere for a charge that Marbury desired to use his position as an argument for his return.
"Peter," said Marbury, as they were leaving the platform, "you will hear that speech of mine forty times, in forty moods and tenses, during the next ten days. Please don't imagine that I enjoy it. But you saw the agent. He would not let me escape, even for twenty-four hours. He knows how important it is."
Over a late supper at the hotel, Peter shared with Marbury his impressions of the day.
"Frankly," he said, "I admired you most of the time."
"Beginning to think better of politics?"
"Politics don't seem to count much in this election."
"Platform politics don't. The people here are only just discovering them. I hear, by the way, that the Government Whips have arranged a debauch for next week. They're sending down Wenderby. My agent, who despises me, is frightened."