Mr. Otway Bethel it was, just arrived from foreign parts in his travelling costume—something shaggy, terminating all over with tails. A wild object he looked; and Mr. Dill rather backed as he drew near, as if fearing he was a real animal which might bite him.
“What’s your name?” cried he.
“It used to be Bethel,” replied the wild man, holding out his hand to Mr. Dill. “So you are in the world, James, and kicking yet?”
“And hope to kick in it for some time to come,” replied Mr. James. “Where did you hail from last? A settlement at the North Pole?”
“Didn’t get quite as far. What’s the row here?”
“When did you arrive, Mr. Otway?” inquired old Dill.
“Now. Four o’clock train. I say, what’s up?”
“An election; that’s all,” said Mr. Ebenezer. “Attley went and kicked the bucket.”
“I don’t ask about the election; I heard all that at the railway station,” returned Otway Bethel, impatiently. “What’s this?” waving his hand at the crowd.
“One of the candidates wasting breath and words—Levison.”