*****
Mr. Cheytor, the Conservative candidate, had addressed a crowded meeting and was returning wearily to his home.
He opened the door with his latchkey and put out the hall light. The maids had gone to bed. Then he went upstairs to his bedroom. He opened the door. From behind the door rushed a small whirlwind. A rough bullet-like head charged him in the region of his abdomen. Mr. Cheytor sat down suddenly. A strange figure dressed in pyjamas, and over those a dressing-gown, and over that an overcoat, stood sternly in front of him.
“You’ve gotter stop it,” said an indignant voice. “You’ve gotter stop it an’ let the Lib’rals get in—you’ve gotter stop——”
Mr. Cheytor stood up and squared at William. William, who fancied himself as a boxer, flew to the attack. The Conservative candidate was evidently a boxer of no mean ability, but he lowered his form to suit William’s. He parried William’s wild onsets, he occasionally got a very gentle one in on William. They moved rapidly about the room, in a silence broken only by William’s snortings. Finally Mr. Cheytor fell over the hearthrug and William fell over Mr. Cheytor. They sat up on the floor in front of the fire and looked at each other.
“Now,” said Mr. Cheytor soothingly. “Let’s talk about it. What’s it all about?”
“They’re goin’ to make bread cheaper—the Lib’rals are,” panted William, “an’ you’re tryin’ to stoppem an’ you——”
“Ah,” said Mr. Cheytor, “but we’re going to make it cheaper, too.”
William gasped.
“You?” he said. “The Rackshunaries? But—if you’re both tryin’ to make bread cheaper why’re you fightin’ each other?”