At three o'clock the poll stood at two hundred and twelve and eighty-three. Then came the close—Captain MacKinnon elected by a majority of sixty-nine.
Loud cheers rose up from the struggling, drunken mass in the market-place.
"Hurray for MacKinnon!—Down with the Tollkeepers!"
In the Court-house the beaten Conservatives heard the shouts and turned fiercely—on one another.
"It's that hemmed gëate of yourn—lost everything!" cried Reuben.
"By God, it's not my gate—it's your wheat."
"My wheat!—wot d'you mean, sir?"
"I mean that, thanks to you, we wasted about three weeks talking to those damned fools about a matter they don't care twopence about. You worked up a false interest, and the result is, that when anything that really touches them is brought forward, the whole campaign drops to pieces."
"It's unaccountable easy to put the blame on me, when it's your hemmed gëate——"