“No, Bob, you had better not. It is just possible they might make a mistake, and shy brickbats at the wrong candidate. It will be safer, I think, to leave the mob to itself: at the same time, we shall not be the worse for the Tipperary demonstration. And how looks the canvass?”
“Tolerably well, but not perfectly secure. The Clique has done its very best, but at the same time there is undeniably a growing feeling against it. Many people grumble about its dominion, and are fools enough to say that they have a right to think for themselves.”
“Could you not circulate a report that Pozzlethwaite is the man of the Clique?”
“The idea is ingenious, but I fear it would hardly work. Dreepdaily is well known to be the headquarters of the confederation, and the name of Provost Binkie is inseparably connected with it.”
“By the way, M’Corkindale, it struck me that you looked rather sweet upon Miss Binkie last evening.”
“I did. In fact I popped the question,” replied Robert calmly.
“Indeed! Were you accepted?”
“Conditionally. If we gain the election, she becomes Mrs M’Corkindale—if we lose, I suppose I shall have to return to Glasgow in a state of celibacy.”
“A curious contract, certainly! Well, Bob, since your success is involved in mine, we must fight a desperate battle.”
“I wish, though, that Mr Sholto Douglas had been kind enough to keep out of the way,” observed M’Corkindale.