It was a big show, and the scrutineers, as they went from bench to bench, counted 141.
“Now for Coote.”
Every one could see it was a terribly close affair. As Dick and Georgie scanned the benches, their hearts sank at the sight of so many not voting.
“Another dead-heat, I expect,” said Pauncefote.
The suggestion drove Dick almost frantic. Coote must come in, or the consequences would be awful.
“Now, you fellows,” he cried, starting up and addressing Templeton generally, as the scrutineers started on their rounds, “all together for old Coote! Don’t forget his trot with the Harriers!”
This simple election speech called forth a cheer, and, better still, sent up two or three more hands.
Loud cries of “Order” from the top end of the room prevented any further appeal, and amid dead silence the scrutineers finished their work.
“For Coote,” announced the spokesman, “there are 146.”
Then did the “Firm” go mad, and lose their heads. Then did they yell till their throats were hoarse, and wave their hands till their arms ached.