To an hundred newspapers, to Mr. Flint at Fairview, and other important personages ticks out the momentous news that the balloting has begun. No use trying to hold your breath until the first ballot is announced; it takes time to obtain the votes of one thousand men—especially when neither General Doby nor any one else knows who they are! The only way is to march up on the stage by counties and file past the ballot-box. Putnam, with their glitter-eyed duke, Mr. Bascom, at their head—presumably solid for Adam B. Hunt; Baron Burrows, who farms out the post-office at Edmundton, leads Edmunds County; Earl Elisha Jane, consul at some hot place where he spends the inclement months drops the first ticket for Haines County, ostensibly solid for home-made virtue and the Honourable Giles.
An hour and a quarter of suspense and torture passes, while collars wilt and coats come off, and fans in the gallery wave incessantly, and excited conversation buzzes in every quarter. And now, see! there is whispering on the stage among the big-bugs. Mr. Chairman Doby rises with a paper in his hand, and the buzzing dies down to silence.
The Honourable Giles Henderson of Kingston has..398
The Honourable Humphrey Crewe of Leith has... 353
The Honourable Adam B. Hunt of Edmundton has.. 249
And a majority being required, there is no choice!
Are the supporters of the People's Champion crest-fallen, think you? Mr. Tooting is not leading them for the moment, but is pressing through the crowd outside the hall and flying up the street to the Pelican and the bridal suite, where he is first with the news. Note for an unabridged biography: the great man is discovered sitting quietly by the window, poring over a book on the modern science of road-building, some notes from which he is making for his first message. And instead of the reek of tobacco smoke, the room is filled with the scent of the floral tributes brought down by the Ladies' Auxiliary from Leith. In Mr. Crewe's right-hand pocket, neatly typewritten, is his speech of acceptance. He is never caught unprepared. Unkind, now, to remind him of that prediction made last night about the first ballot to the newspapers—and useless.
“I told you last night they were buyin' 'em right under our noses,” cried Mr. Tooting, in a paroxysm of indignation, “and you wouldn't believe me. They got over one hundred and sixty away from us.”
“It strikes me, Mr. Tooting,” said Mr. Crewe, “that it was your business to prevent that.”
There will no doubt be a discussion, when the biographer reaches this juncture, concerning the congruity of reform delegates who can be bought. It is too knotty a point of ethics to be dwelt upon here.
“Prevent it!” echoed Mr. Tooting, and in the strong light of the righteousness of that eye reproaches failed him. “But there's a whole lot of 'em can be seen, right now, while the ballots are being taken. It won't be decided on the next ballot.”
“Mr. Tooting,” said Mr. Crewe, indubitably proving that he had the qualities of a leader—if such proof were necessary, “go back to the convention. I have no doubt of the outcome, but that doesn't mean you are to relax your efforts. Do you understand?”
“I guess I do,” replied Mr. Tooting, and was gone. “He still has his flag up,” he whispered into the Honourable Timothy Watling's ear, when he reached the hall. “He'll stand a little more yet.”