Then White-Hat Williams, who had looked forward to this as to the golden moment of his life and had conned his oration until he knew its thunderous periods by heart, stepped forward to nominate the Whig candidates. He took off his hat; and as if that had been the signal for silence, such a stillness fell on all that his voice rang above the multitude like a trumpet.
“Gentlemen,” he said, and smiling looked first to the one side and then to the other. “Gentlemen——”
Alas, he smiled too soon. The Tories grasped the situation, and, furious at the reception which had fallen to the lot of their leaders, determined that if they were not heard, no one should be heard. Before he could utter another word they broke into rabid bellowings, and what their shouts lacked in volume they made up in ill-will. In a twinkling they drowned White-Hat Williams’s voice; and now who so indignant as the Whigs? In thirty seconds half-a-dozen single combats were proceeding in front of the Tory booth, blood flowed from as many noses, and amid a terrific turmoil respectable men and justices of the peace leant across the barriers and shook their fists and flung frenzied challenges broadcast.
All to no purpose. The Tories, though so much the weaker party, though but one to eight, could not be silenced. After making three or four attempts to gain a hearing White-Hat Williams saw that he must reserve his oration: and with a scowl he shouted his names into the ear of the clerk.
“Who? Who did he say?” growled the Squire, panting with rage and hoarse with shouting. His face was crimson, his cravat awry, he had lost his hat. “Who? Who?”
“Wrench and—one moment, sir!”
“Eh? Who do you say?”
“I couldn’t hear! One moment, sir! Oh, yes! Wrench and Vaughan!”
“Vaughan?” old Rowley cried with a profane oath. “Impossible!”
But it was not impossible! Though so great was the surprise, so striking the effect upon Sir Robert’s supporters that for a few seconds something like silence supervened. The serpent! The serpent! Here was a blow indeed—in the back!