“Boo!” moaned the crowd higher up the street. The sound sank and the harsh voice of a speaker came fitfully over the heads of the people.
“Who’s that?” asked old Squire Rowley, one of the country gentlemen.
“Some spouter from Bristol, sir, I fancy,” the agent replied contemptuously. And with his eye he whipped in a couple of hobbledehoys who seemed inclined to stray towards the enemy.
“I suppose,” the Squire continued, lowering his voice, “you can depend on your men, White?”
“Oh, Lord, yes, sir,” White answered; like a good election agent he took no one into his confidence. “We’ve enough here to do the trick. Besides, young Mr. Vaughan will be here to-morrow, and the landlord of the Blue Duck, who is not well enough to walk to-day, will poll. He’d break his heart, bless you,” White continued, with a brow of brass, “if he could not vote for Sir Robert!”
“Seven to five.”
“Seven to four, sir.”
“But Dyas, I hear, the d——d rogue, will vote against you?”
White winked.
“Bad,” he said cryptically, “but not as bad as that, sir.”