“You will,” continued the agent, shuffling the cards with the help of a moistened thumb, “do these houses not marked with a tick. The rest have been done, but these were either not at home when our canvasser called, or there was some other reason why they have to be done again.”
Reginald came in then, looking as if the fate of continents were secreted under his hat, and Polly arrived at the same moment. “Ah, Martha,” Reginald said, with the smile of a clever actor playing a crisis in the Foreign Office, “that’s good of you. You’d better take Polly and go round together. How are we getting on, Hoppes?” He leaned over the table in an absorbed attitude, so I left with my cards and Polly.
Christabel Street was a quiet little neighbourhood of yellow brick fronts, red stone steps, and brown doors, at the back of the main line of frowsy shops which ran across Reginald’s ward. I found number 102, next door to an inquisitive young person with a pail of dirty water and a cold in the head. We knocked at the door. The name on the card was Eliza Wickham. It will probably save explanation if I add a picture of Eliza Wickham and Polly (I kept in the background to learn experience), and record the conversation exactly as it took place.
Eliza: “Is’t for the votin’? Well, ’oo is he?”
Polly: “Oh such a good man! I expect you know all about him.” (I asked her afterwards why she did not explain that he was her husband, and she said she had done so in a great many cases, but found that it sometimes prejudiced them. They drew personal comparisons between her and the Liberal candidate’s wife, who ran clubs and concerts in that district.) “You know Canon Black? Well, Mr. Ashfield knows him very well, and he has had so much experience on the School Board—Oh no, that is the Liberal candidate that you mean—No, he has had no experience at all. He couldn’t reduce the rates by a penny because, you see, he doesn’t know how to do it. Now, I am sure you will get your husband to vote for him; a good-looking woman like you can always get round her husband, and we can call for him at any hour. Good-bye, and you’ll say I called, won’t you?”
“What shall we mark her?” she asked, as we turned away.
“She didn’t give us much clue, did she?” I answered. “She hardly said anything. But she had a very firm eye. Suppose we say ‘doubtful.’”
We came upon Mrs. Henry at the bottom of Christabel Street, and Polly took her away, sending me alone to Llewellyn Street, and promising to join me at the other end.
“But surely John Hughes won’t be in at this time,” I protested, hoping for respite.