An Amiable Charlatan/Chapter 11

I scarcely recognized Mr. Cullen when he first accosted me in the courtyard of the Milan. At no time of distinguished appearance, a certain carelessness of dress and gait had brought him now almost on a level with the loafer in the street. His clothes needed brushing, he was unshaved, and he looked altogether very much in need of a bath and a new outfit.

"May I have a word with you, Mr. Walmsley?" he asked, standing in the middle of the pavement in front of me and blocking my progress toward the Strand.

I hesitated for a moment. His identity was only just then beginning to dawn upon me.

"Mr. Cullen!" I exclaimed.

"At your service, sir."

I turned round and led the way back into the court.

"This is not a professional visit, I trust?" I said as we passed into the smoke room.

"Not entirely, sir," Mr. Cullen admitted. "At the same time" He paused and looked out the window steadily for a moment, as though in search of inspiration.

"I trust," I began hastily, "that Mr. Bundercombe has not"

"Precisely about him, sir, that I came to see you," Mr. Cullen interrupted. "I am bound to admit that a few weeks ago there was no man in the world I would have laid my hands on so readily. That day at the Ritz, however, changed my views completely. I feel," he added, with a dry smile, "that I got more than level with Mr. Bundercombe when I sent for his wife."

"So it was you who sent the cables that brought her over!" I remarked.

"But please remember, sir," he begged apologetically, "that I had never seen the lady. I sent the cables, confidently anticipating that she would disclaim all knowledge of Mr. Bundercombe. When she arrived, and I realized that she was actually his wife, I forgave him freely for all the small annoyances he had caused me: my visit to you this morning, in fact, is entirely in his interests."

"What has Mr. Bundercombe been up to now?" I asked nervously.

"Nothing serious—at any rate, that I know of," Mr. Cullen assured me. "For the last fortnight—ever since Mrs. Bundercombe's arrival, in fact—Mr. Bundercombe has somehow or other managed to keep away from all his old associates and out of any sort of mischief. Last night, however, I was out on duty—I haven't had time to go home and change my clothes yet—in a pretty bad part, shadowing one of the most dangerous swell mobsmen in Europe—a man you may have heard of, sir. He is commonly known as Dagger Rodwell."

I hastily disclaimed any acquaintance with the person in question.

"Tell me, though," I begged, "what this has to do with Mr. Bundercombe?"

"Just this," Mr. Cullen explained: "I ran my man to ground in a place where I wouldn't be seen except professionally—and with him was Mr. Bundercombe."

"They were not engaged," I asked quickly, "in any lawbreaking escapade at the time, I trust!"

Mr. Cullen shook his head reassuringly.

"Rodwell only goes in for the very big coups," he said. "Two or three in a lifetime, if he brought them off, would be enough for him. All the same there's something planning now and he's fairly got hold of Mr. Bundercombe. He's a smooth-tongued rascal—absolutely a gentleman to look at and speak to. What I want you to do, sir, if you're sufficiently interested, is to take Mr. Bundercombe away for a time."

"Interested!" I groaned. "He'll be my father-in-law in a couple of months."

"Then if you want him to attend the ceremony, sir," Mr. Cullen advised earnestly, "you'll get him out of London. He's restless. You may have noticed that yourself. He's spoiling for an adventure, and Dagger Rodwell is just the man to make use of him and then leave him high and dry—the booby for us to save our bacon with. I don't wish any harm to Mr. Bundercombe, sir—and that's straight! Until the day I met Mrs. Bundercombe at Liverpool I am free to confess that I was feeling sore against him. To-day that's all wiped out. We had a pleasant little time at the Ritz that afternoon, and my opinion of the gentleman is that he's the right sort. I'm here to give you the office, sir, to get him away from London—and get him away quick. I may know a trifle more than I've told you, or I may not; but you'll take my advice if you want to escape trouble."

"I'll do what I can," I assured him a little blankly. "To tell you the truth I have been fearing something of this sort. During the last few days especially his daughter tells me he has been making all sorts of excuses to get away. I'll do what I can—and many thanks, Mr. Cullen. Let me offer you something."

Mr. Cullen declined anything except a cigar and went on his way. I called a taxi and drove round to the very delightful house the Bundercombes had taken in Prince's Gardens. I caught Mr. Bundercombe on the threshold. He would have hurried off, but I laid a detaining hand on his arm.

"Come back with me, if you please," I begged. "I have some news. I need to consult you all."

Mr. Bundercombe glanced at his watch. His manner was a little furtive. He was not dressed as usual—in frock coat, white waistcoat and silk hat, a costume that seemed to render more noticeable his great girth and smooth pink-and-white face—but in a blue serge, double-breasted suit, a bowler hat, and a style of neckgear a little reminiscent of the Bowery. Something in his very appearance seemed to me a confirmation of Mr. Cullen's warning. He looked at his watch and muttered something about an appointment.

"I promise not to keep you more than a very few minutes," I assured him. "Come along!"

I kept my arm on his and led him back into the house.

"Eve is in the morning room," he whispered. "Let's go in quietly and perhaps we shan't be heard."

We crossed the hall on tiptoe in the manner of conspirators. Before we could enter the room, however, our progress was arrested by a somewhat metallic cough. Mrs. Bundercombe, in a gray tweed coat and skirt of homely design, a black hat and black gloves, with a satchel in her hand, from which were protruding various forms of pamphlet literature, appeared suddenly on the threshold of the room she had insisted upon having allotted for her private use, and which she was pleased to call her study.

"Mr. Bundercombe!" she exclaimed portentously, taking no notice whatever of me.

"My dear?" he replied.

"May I ask the meaning of your leaving the house like a truant schoolboy at this hour of the morning, and in such garb!" demanded Mrs. Bundercombe, eying him severely through her pince-nez. "Is your memory failing you, Joseph Henry? Did you or did you not arrange to accompany me this morning to a meeting at the offices of the Women's Social Federation?"

"I fear I—er—I had forgotten the matter," Mr. Bundercombe stammered. "An affair of business—I was rung up on the telephone."

Mrs. Bundercombe stared at him. She said nothing; expression was sufficient. She turned to me.

"Eve is in the morning room, Mr. Walmsley," she said. "I presume your visit at this hour of the morning was intended for her."

"Precisely," I admitted. "I will go in and see her."

I opened the door and Mr. Bundercombe rather precipitately preceded me. If he had contemplated escape, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Mrs. Bundercombe followed us in. She reminded us of her presence by a hard cough as Eve saluted me in a somewhat light-hearted fashion.

"Mind, there's mother!" Eve whispered, with a little grimace. "Tell me why you have come so early, Paul. Are you going to take me out motoring all day? Or are you going to the dressmaker's with me? I really ought to have a chaperon of some sort, you know, and mother is much too busy making friends with the leaders of the Cause over here."

She made a face at me from behind a vase of flowers. Mrs. Bundercombe apparently thought it well to explain her position.

"I find it," she said, "absolutely incumbent upon me, while on a visit to this metropolis, to cultivate the acquaintance of the women of this country who are in sympathy with the great movement in the States with which I am associated. It is expected of me that I should make my presence over here known."

"Naturally," I agreed; "naturally, Mrs. Bundercombe. I see by the papers that you were speaking at a meeting last night. That reminds me," I went on, "that I really did come down this morning on rather an important matter, and perhaps it is as well that you are all here, as I should like your advice. I have received an invitation to stand for the division of the county in which I live."

They all looked puzzled.

"To stand for Parliament, I mean," I hastily explained to them. "It seems really rather a good opportunity—as, of course, I am fairly well known in the district, and the majority against us was only seventy or eighty at the last election."

"Say, that's interesting!" Mr. Bundercombe declared, putting down his hat, "I didn't know you were by way of being a professional man, though."

"I'm not," I replied. "You wouldn't call politics a profession exactly."

Mr. Bundercombe was more puzzled than ever. His hand caressed his chin in familiar fashion.

"Well, it's one way of making a living, isn't it?" he asked. "We call it a profession on our side."

"It isn't a way of making a living at all!" I assured him. "It costs one a great deal more than can be made out of it."

Mr. Bundercombe stopped scratching his chin. Mrs. Bundercombe sat down opposite me and I was perfectly certain that she would presently have a few remarks to offer. Eve was looking delightfully interested.

"Say, I'm not quite sure I follow you," Mr. Bundercombe observed. "I am with you all right when you say that the direct pecuniary payment for being in Parliament doesn't amount to anything; but what's your pull worth, eh?"

"My what?" I inquired.

"Dash it all!" Mr. Bundercombe continued a little testily. "I only want to get at the common sense of the matter. You are thinking of trying for a seat in Parliament, and you say the four hundred a year you get for it is nothing. Well, of course, it's nothing. What I want to know is just what you get out of it indirectly? You get the handling of so much patronage, I suppose? What is it worth to you, and how much is there?"

I spent the next five minutes in an eloquent attempt to explain the difference between English and American politics. Mr. Bundercombe was partly convinced, but more than ever sure that he had found his way into a country of half-witted people. Eve, however, was much quicker at grasping the situation.

"I think it's perfectly delightful, Paul!" she declared. "I have read no end of stories of English electioneering, and they sound such fun! I want to come down and help. I have tons of new dresses—and I can read up all about politics going down on the train."

"That brings me," I went on, "to the real object of my visit. I want you and your father—I want you all," I added heroically—"to come down with me to Bedfordshire and help. You were coming anyway next week for a little time, you know. I want to carry you off at once."

Mrs. Bundercombe, who had been only waiting for her opportunity, broke in at this juncture.

"Young man," she said impressively; "Mr. Walmsley, before I consent to attend one of your meetings or to associate myself in any way with your cause, I must ask you one plain and simple question, and insist upon a plain and simple answer: What are your views as to Woman Suffrage?"

"The views of my party," I answered, with futile diplomacy.

"Enunciate as briefly as possible, but clearly, what the views of your party are," Mrs. Bundercombe bade me.

"I won't have him heckled!" Eve protested, coming over to my side.

I coughed.

"We are entirely in sympathy," I explained, "with the enfranchisement of women up to a certain point. We think that unmarried women who own property and pay taxes should have the vote."

"Rubbish!" Mrs. Bundercombe exclaimed firmly. "We want universal suffrage. We want men and women placed on exactly the same footing, politically and socially."

"That," I said, "I am afraid no political party would be prepared to grant at present."

"Then, save as an opponent, I can attend no political meetings in this country," Mrs. Bundercombe declared, rising to her feet with a fearsome air of finality.

I sighed.

"In that case," I confessed, "I am afraid it is useless for me to appeal to you for help. Perhaps you and your father" I added, turning to Eve.

"Let them go down to you in the country by all means!" Mrs. Bundercombe interrupted. "For my part, though my visit to Europe was wholly undesired—was forced upon me, in fact, by dire circumstances," she added emphatically, glaring at Mr. Bundercombe—"since I am here I find so much work ready to my hand, so much appalling ignorance, so much prejudice, that I conceive it to be my duty to take up during my stay the work which presents itself here. I accordingly shall not leave London."

Mr. Bundercombe cheered up perceptibly at these words.

"I am rather busy myself," he said; "but perhaps a day or two"

I thrust my arm through his.

"I rely upon you to help me canvass," I told him. "A lot is done by personal persuasion."

"Canvass!" Mr. Bundercombe repeated reflectively. "Say, just what do you mean by that?"

"It is very simple," I assured him. "You go and talk to the farmers and voters generally, and put a few plain issues before them—we'll post you up all right as to what to say. Then you wind up by asking for their votes and interest on my behalf."

"I do that—do I?" Mr. Bundercombe murmured. "Talk to them in a plain, straightforward way, eh?"

"That's it," I agreed. "A man with sound common sense like yourself could do me a lot of good."

Mr. Bundercombe was thoughtful, I am convinced that at that moment the germs of certain ideas which bore fruit a little later on were born in his mind. I saw him blink several times as he gazed up at the ceiling. I saw a faint smile gradually expand over his face. A premonition of trouble, even at that moment, forced itself on me.

"You'll have to be careful, you know," I explained, a little apprehensively. "You'll have to keep friends with the fellows all the time. They wouldn't appreciate practical jokes down there and the law as to bribery and corruption is very strict."

Mr. Bundercombe nodded solemnly.

"If I take the job on," he said, "you can trust me. It seems as though there might be something in it."

"You'll come down with me, then," I begged, "both of you? Come this afternoon! The dressmakers can follow you, Eve. It isn't far—an hour in the train and twenty minutes in the motor. We may have to picnic a little just to start with, but I know that the most important of the servants are there, ready and waiting."

"Pray do not let me stand in your way," Mrs. Bundercombe declared, rising. "My time will be fully occupied. I wish you good morning, Mr. Walmsley. I have an appointment at a quarter to twelve. You can let me know your final decision at luncheon-time."

She left the room. Mr. Bundercombe, Eve, and I exchanged glances.

"How far away did you say your place was, Paul?" Mr. Bundercombe asked.

"Right in the country," I told him—"takes you about an hour and a half to get there."

"I think we'll come," Mr. Bundercombe decided, looking absently out the window and watching his wife eloquently admonish a taxicab driver, who had driven up with a cigarette in his mouth. "Yes, I'm all for it!"

My little party at Walmsley Hall was in most respects a complete success. My sister was able to come and play hostess, and Eve was charmed with my house and its surroundings. Mr. Bundercombe, however, was a source of some little anxiety. On the first morning, when we were all preparing to go out, he drew me on one side.

"Paul," he said—he had, with some difficulty, got into the way of calling me by my Christian name occasionally—"I want to get wise to this thing. Where does your political boss hang out?"

"We haven't such a person," I told him.

He seemed troubled. The more he inquired into our electioneering habits, the less he seemed to understand them.

"What's your platform, anyway?" he asked.

I handed him a copy of my election address, which he read carefully through, with a large cigar in the corner of his mouth. He handed it back to me with a somewhat depressed air.

"Seems to kind of lack grit," he remarked, a little doubtfully. "Why don't you go for the other side a bit more?"

"Look here!" I suggested, mindful that Eve was waiting for me. "You run down and have a chat with my agent. You'll find him just opposite the town hall in Bildborough. There's a car going down now."

"I'm on!" he agreed. "Anyway I must get to understand this business."

He departed presently and returned to luncheon with a distinctly crestfallen air. He beckoned me mysteriously into the library and laid his hand upon my shoulder in friendly fashion.

"Look here, Paul," he said, "is it too late to change your ticket?"

"Change my what?" I asked him.

"Change your platform—or whatever you call it! You're on the wrong horse, Paul, my boy. Even your own agent admits it—though I never mentioned your name at first or told him who I was. All the people round here with votes are farmers, agricultural laborers and small shopkeepers. Your platform's of no use to them."

"Well, that's what we've got to find out!" I protested. "Personally, I am convinced that it is."

"Now look here!" Mr. Bundercombe argued; "these chaps, though they seem stupid enough, are all out for themselves. They want to vote for what's going to make life easier for them. What's the good of sticking it into 'em about the Empire! Between you and me I don't think they care a fig for it. Then all this talk about military service Gee! They ain't big enough for it! Disestablishment too—what do they care about that! You let me write your address for you. Promise 'em a land bill. Promise them the food on their tables at a bit less. Stick something in about a reduction in the price of beer. I've seen the other chap's address and it's a corker! Mostly lies, but thundering good ones. You let me touch yours up a bit."

"Where have you been?" I asked, a strange misgiving stealing into my mind. "Have you been talking to Mr. Ansell like this?"

"Ansell? No! Who's he?" Mr. Bundercombe inquired.

"My agent."

Mr. Bundercombe shook his head.

"Chap I palled up with was called Harrison."

I groaned.

"You've been to the other fellow's agent," I told him; "the agent for the Radical candidate."

Mr. Bundercombe whistled.

"You don't say!" he murmured. "Well, I'll tell you what it is, Paul, there are no flies on that chap! He's a real nippy little worker—that's what he is! If you take my advice," he went on persuasively, "you'll swap. We'll make it worth his while to come over. I've seen your Mr. Ansell—if that's his name. I saw the name on a brass plate and I saw him come out of his office—stiff, starched sort of chap, with a thin face and gray side whiskers!"

"That's the man," I admitted. "He and his father before him, and his grandfather, have been solicitors to my people for I don't know how many years!"

"He looked it!" Mr. Bundercombe declared. "A withered old skunk, if ever there was one! You want a live man to see you through this, Paul. You let me go down and sound Harrison this afternoon. No reason that I can see why we shouldn't use this fellow's address, too, if we can make terms with him."

"Look here!" I said. "Politics over on this side don't admit of such violent changes. My address is in the printer's hands and I've got to stick to it; and Ansell will have to be my agent whatever happens. It isn't all talk that wins these elections. The Walmsleys are well known in the county and we've done a bit for the country during the last hundred years. This other fellow—Horrocks, his name is—has never been near the place before. I grant you he's going to promise a lot of very interesting things, but that's been going on just a little too long. The people have had enough of that sort of thing. I think you'll find they'll put more trust in the little we can promise than in that rigmarole of Harrison's."

Mr. Bundercombe shook his head doubtfully.

"Well," he sighed, "I'm only on the outside edge of this thing yet. I must give it another morning."

We had a pleasant luncheon party, at which Mr. Bundercombe was introduced to some of my supporters, with whom—as he usually did with every one—he soon made himself popular. Eve and I then made our first little effort at canvassing. Eve's methods differed from her father's.

"I am so sorry," she said as she shook hands with a very influential but very doubtful voter of the farmer class, "but I don't know anything about English politics; so I can't talk to you about it as I'd like to. But you know I am going to marry Mr. Walmsley and come to live here, and it would be so nice to feel that all my friends had voted for him. If you have a few minutes to spare, Mr. Brown, would you please tell me just where you don't agree with Paul? I should so much like to hear, because he tells me that if once you were on his side he would feel almost comfortable."

Mr. Brown, who had always met my advances with a grim taciturnity that made conversation exceedingly difficult, proceeded to dissertate upon one or two of the vexed questions of the day. I ventured to put in a few words now and then, and after a time he invited us in to tea. When we left he was more gracious than I had ever known him to be.

"And you must vote for Mr. Walmsley!" Eve declared at the end of her little speech of thanks, "because I want so much to have you come and take tea with me on the Terrace at the House of Commons—and I can't unless Paul is a member, can I?"

"Bribery and corruption!" Mr. Brown laughed. "However, we'll see. Certainly I have been very much pleased to hear Mr. Walmsley's views upon several matters. When did you say the village meeting was, Mr. Walmsley?"

"Thursday night," I replied.

"Well, I'll come," he promised.

"You'll take the chair?" I begged. "Nothing could do me more good than that; and I feel sure, if you look at things" I was going to be very eloquent, but Eve interrupted me.

"Let me sit next to you, please," she said, looking up at him with her large, unusually innocent eyes.

"Oh, well—if you like!" Mr. Brown assented.

We drove off down the avenue in complete silence. When we had turned the corner Eve gave a little sigh.

"Paul," she declared, "I don't think there's anything I've ever come across in my life that's half so much fun as electioneering! Please take me to the next most difficult."

If Eve was a success, however, Mr. Bundercombe was to turn out a great disappointment. He came home a little later for dinner, looking very gloomy.

"Paul," he said, as we met for a moment in the smoking room, "Paul, I've sad news for you."

"I am sorry to hear it," I replied.

"I've looked into this little matter of politics," he continued; "I've looked into it as thoroughly as I can and I can't support you. You're on the wrong side, my boy! I've shaken hands with Mr. Horrocks, and that's the man who'll get the votes in this constituency. I've promised to do what I can to help him."

I was a little taken aback.

"You're not in earnest!" I exclaimed.

"Dead earnest!" Mr. Bundercombe regretted. "The chap's convinced me. I feel it's up to me to lend him a hand."

"But surely," I expostulated, "even if you cannot see your way clear to help me, there's no need for you to go over to the enemy like this! You're not obliged to interfere in the election at all, are you?"

Mr. Bundercombe sighed.

"Matter of principle with me!" he explained. "I must be doing something. I can't canvass for you. I'll have to look round a bit for the other chap."

"I really don't see," I began, just a little annoyed, "why you should feel called upon to interfere in an English election at all, unless it is to help a friend."

Mr. Bundercombe looked at me and solemnly winked!

"Say, that's the dinner gong!" he announced cheerfully. "Let's be getting in."

"But I don't quite understand"

Mr. Bundercombe repeated the wink upon a smaller scale. I followed him into the drawing-room, still in the dark as to his exact political position.

The movements of my prospective father-in-law were, for the next few days, wrapped in a certain mystery. He arrived home one evening, however, in a state of extreme indignation. As usual when anything had happened to upset him he came to look for me in the library.

"My boy," he said, "of all the God-forsaken, out-of-the-world, benighted holes, this Bildborough of yours absolutely takes the cake! For sheer ignorance—for sheer, thick-headed, bumptious, arrogant ignorance—give me your farmers!"

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

"Wrong? Listen!" he exclaimed, almost dramatically. "In this district—in this whole district, mind—there is not a single farmer who has heard of Bundercombe's Reapers!"

"I farm a bit myself," I reminded him, "and I had never heard of them."

Mr. Bundercombe went to the sideboard and mixed himself a cocktail with great care.

"Bundercombe's Reapers," he said, as soon as he had disposed of it, "are the only reapers used by live farmers in the United States of America, Canada, Australia, or any other country worth a cent!"

"That seems to hit us pretty hard," I remarked. "Have you got an agent over here?"

"Sure!" Mr. Bundercombe replied. "I don't follow the sales now, so I can't tell you what he's doing; but we've an agent here—and any country that doesn't buy Bundercombe's Reapers is off the line as regards agriculture!"

"What are you going to do about it?" I asked.

"Do!" Mr. Bundercombe toyed with his wine glass for a moment and then set it down. "What I have done," he announced, "is this: I have wired to my agent. I have ordered him to ship half a dozen machines—if necessary on a special train—and I am going to give an exhibition on some land I have hired, over by Little Bildborough, the day after tomorrow."

"That's the day of the election!" I exclaimed.

"You couldn't put it off, I suppose?" he suggested. "That's the day I've fixed for my exhibition at any rate. I am giving the farmers a free lunch—slap-up affair it's going to be, I can tell you!"

"I am afraid," I answered, with a wholly wasted sarcasm, "that the affair has gone too far now for us to consider an alteration in the date."

"Well, well! We must try not to clash," Mr. Bundercombe said magnanimously. "How long does the voting go on?"

"From eight until eight," I told him.

Mr. Bundercombe was thoughtful.

"It's a long time to hold them!" he murmured.

"To hold whom?" I demanded.

Mr. Bundercombe started slightly.

"Nothing! Nothing! By the by, do you know a chap called Jonas—Henry Jonas, of Milton Farm?"

"I should think I do!" I groaned. "He's the backbone of the Opposition, the best speaker they've got and the most popular man."

Mr. Bundercombe smiled sweetly.

"Is that so!" he observed. "Well, well! He is a very intelligent man. I trust I'll be able to persuade him that any reaper he may be using at the present moment is a jay compared to Bundercombe's—this season's model!"

"I trust you may," I answered, a trifle tartly. "I am glad you're likely to do a little business; but you won't mind, my reminding you—will you?— that you really came down here to give me a leg up with my election, and not to sell your machines or to spend half your time in the enemy's camp!"

Mr. Bundercombe smiled. It was a curious smile, which seemed somehow to lose itself in his face. Then the dinner gong sounded and he winked at me slowly. Again I was conscious of some slight uneasiness. It began to dawn upon me that there was a scheme somewhere hatching; that Mr. Bundercombe's activity in the camp of the enemy might perhaps have an unsuspected significance. I talked to Eve about this after dinner; but she reassured me.

"Father talks of nothing but his reaping machines," she declared. "Besides, I am quite sure he would do nothing indiscreet. Only yesterday I found him studying a copy of the act referring to bribery and corruption. Dad's pretty smart, you know!"

"I do know that," I admitted. "I wish I knew what he was up to, though."

The next day was the last before the election. The little market of Bildborough was in a state of considerable excitement. Several open-air meetings were held toward evening. Eve and I, returning from a motor tour of the constituency, called at the office of my agent. We chatted with Mr. Ansell for a little while and then he pointed across the square.

"There's an American there," he said, "that the other side seems to have got hold of. He's their most popular speaker by a long way; but I gather they're a little uneasy about him. Didn't I have the pleasure of meeting him at your house?"

"Mr. Bundercombe!" I sighed. "He came down here to help me!"

Mr. Ansell put on his hat and beckoned mysteriously.

"Come out by the back way," he invited. "We shall hear him. He is going to speak from the little platform there."

By crossing a hotel yard, a fragment of kitchen garden and a bowling green, we were able to come within a few yards of where Mr. Bundercombe, with several other of Mr. Horrocks' supporters, was standing upon a small raised platform. Two local tradesmen and one helper from London addressed a few remarks of the usual sort to an apathetic audience, which was rapidly increasing in size. It was only when Mr. Bundercombe rose to his feet that the slightest sign of enthusiasm manifested itself. Eve looked at me with a pleased smile.

"Just look at all of them," she whispered, "how they are hurrying to hear dad speak!"

"That's all very well," I grumbled; "but he ought to be doing this for me."

Her fingers pressed my arm.

"Listen!" she said.

Mr. Bundercombe's style was breezy and his jokes were frequent. He stood in an easy attitude and spoke with remarkable fluency. His first few remarks, which were mainly humorous, were cheered to the echo. The crowd was increasing all the time. Presently he took them into his confidence.

"When I came down here a few days ago," we heard him say, "I came meaning to support my friend, Mr. Walmsley." (Groans and cheers.) "That's all right, boys!" Mr. Bundercombe continued, "there's nothing the matter with Mr. Walmsley; but I come from a country where there's a bit more kick about politics, and I pretty soon made up my mind that the kick wasn't on the side my young friend belongs to.

"Now just listen to this: As one business man to another, I tell you that I asked Mr. Walmsley, the first night I was here: 'What are you getting out of this? Why are you going into Parliament?' He didn't seem to understand. He pleaded guilty to a four-hundred-a-year fee, but told me at the same time that it cost him a great deal more than that in extra charities. I asked him what pull he got through being in Parliament and how many of his friends he could find places for. All he could do was to smile and tell me that I didn't understand the way things were done in this country. He wanted to make me believe that he was anxious to sit in Parliament there and work day after day just for the honor and glory of it, or because he thought it was his duty.

"You know I'm an American business man, and that didn't cut any ice with me; so I dropped in and had a chat with Mr. Horrocks. I soon came to the conclusion that the candidate I'm here to support to-night is the man who comes a bit nearer to our idea of practical politics over on the other side of the pond. Mr. Horrocks doesn't make any bones about it. He wants that four hundred a year; in fact he needs it!" (Ironical cheers.) "He wants to call himself M. P. because when he goes out to lecture on Socialism he'll get a ten-guinea fee instead of five, on account of those two letters after his name.

"Furthermore his is the party that understands what I call practical politics. Every job that's going is given to their friends; and if there aren't enough jobs to go round, why, they get one of their statesmen to frame a bill—what you call your Insurance Bill is one of them, I believe—in which there are several hundred offices that need filling. And there you are!"

Mr. Ansell and I exchanged glances. The enthusiasm that had greeted Mr. Bundercombe's efforts was giving place now to murmurs and more ironical cheers. One of his coadjutors on the platform leaned over and whispered in Mr. Bundercombe's ear. Mr. Bundercombe nodded.

"Gentlemen," he concluded, "I'm told that my time is up. I have explained my views to you and told you why I think you ought to vote for Mr. Horrocks. I've nothing to say against the other fellow, except that I don't understand his point of view. Mr. Horrocks I do understand. He's out to do himself a bit o' good and it's up to you to help him."

A determined tug at Mr. Bundercombe's coattails by one of the men on the platform brought him to his seat amid loud bursts of laughter and more cheers. Eve gripped my arm and we turned slowly away.

"It's a privilege," I declared solemnly, "to have ever known your father! If I only had an idea what he meant about those reaping machines! You couldn't give me a hint, I suppose, Eve?"

She shook her head.

"Better wait!"

In the excitement of that final day I think both Eve and I completely forgot all about Mr. Bundercombe. It was not until we were on our way back from a motor tour through the outlying parts of the district that we were forcibly reminded of his existence. Quite close to Little Bildborough, the only absolutely hostile part of my constituency, we came upon what was really an extraordinary sight. Our chauffeur of his own accord drew up by the side of the road. Eve and I rose in our places.

In a large field on our left was gathered together apparently the whole population of the district. In one corner was a huge marquee, through the open flaps of which we could catch a glimpse of a sumptuously arranged cold collation. On a long table just outside, covered with a white cloth, was a vast array of bottles and beside it stood a man in a short linen jacket, who struck me as being suspiciously like Fritz, the bartender at one of Mr. Bundercombe's favorite haunts in London.

Toward the center of the field, seated upon a ridiculously inadequate seat on the top of a reaping machine, was Mr. Bundercombe. He had divested himself of coat and waistcoat, and was hatless. The perspiration was streaming down his face as he gripped the steering wheel. He was followed by a little crowd of children and sympathizing men, who cheered him all the time.

At a little distance away, on the other side of a red flag, Henry Jonas, the large farmer of the district, and the speaker on whom my opponent chiefly relied, was seated upon a similar machine in a similar state of undress. It was apparent, however, even to us, that Mr. Bundercombe's progress was at least twice as rapid as his opponent's.

"What on earth is it all about?" I exclaimed, absolutely bewildered.

Eve, who was standing by my side, clasped her hands round my arm.

"It seems to me," she murmured sweetly, "as if dad were trying his reaping machine against some one else's."

I looked at her demure little smile and I looked at the field in which I recognized very many of my staunchest opponents. Then I looked at the marquee. The table there must have been set for at least a hundred people. Suddenly I received a shock. Seated underneath the hedge, hatless and coatless, with his hair in picturesque disorder, was Mr. Jonas' cousin, also a violent opponent of my politics, and a nonconformist. He had a huge tumbler by his side, which—seeing me—he raised to his lips.

"Good old Walmsley!" he shouted out. "No politics to-day! Much too hot! Come in and see the reaping match."

He took a long drink and I sat down in the car.

"You know," I said to Mr. Ansell, who was standing on the front seat, "there'll be trouble about this!"

Mr. Ansell was looking a little grave himself.

"Is Mr. Bundercombe really the manufacturer of that machine?" he asked.

"Of course he is!" Eve replied. "It's the one hobby of his life—or, rather, it used to be," she corrected herself hastily. "Even now, when he begins talking about his reaping machine he forgets everything else."

Mr. Ansell hurried away and made a few inquiries. Meanwhile we watched the progress of the match. Every time Mr. Bundercombe had to turn he rocked in his seat and retained his balance only with difficulty. At every successful effort he was loudly cheered by a little group of following enthusiasts. Mr. Ansell returned, looking a little more cheerful.

"Everything is being given by the Bundercombe Reaping Company," he announced, "and Mr. Bundercombe's city agent is on the spot prepared to book orders for the machine. It seems that Mr. Bundercombe has backed himself at ten to one in ten-pound notes to beat Mr. Jonas by half an hour, each taking half the field."

"Who's ahead?" Eve asked excitedly.

"Mr. Bundercombe is well ahead," Mr. Ansell replied, "and they say that he can do better still if he tries. It looks rather," Mr. Ansell concluded, dropping his voice, "as though he were trying to make the thing last out. Afterward they are all going to sit down to a free meal—that is, if any of them are able to sit down," he added, with a glance round the field. "Hello! Here's Harrison."

Mr. Harrison, recognizing us, descended from his car and came across. He shook hands with Eve, at whom he glanced in a somewhat peculiar fashion.

"Mr. Walmsley," he said, "a week ago we were rather proud of having inveigled away one of your adherents. All I can say at the present moment is that we should have been better satisfied if you had left Mr. Bundercombe in town."

"Why, he's been speaking against me at nearly every one of your meetings!" I protested.

"That's all very well," Mr. Harrison complained; "but he's not what I should call a convincing speaker. He is a democrat all right, and a people's man—and all the rest of it; but he hasn't got quite the right way of advocating our principles. I have been obliged to ask him to discontinue public speaking until after the election. The fact of it is, I really believe he's cost us a good many more votes than he's gained. All he says is very well; but when he sits down one feels that our people are all for what they can get out of it—and yours are prepared to give their services for nothing."

"What's all this mean?" I asked, waving my hand toward the field.

Mr. Harrison looked at me very steadily indeed. Then he looked at Eve. I can only hope that my own expression was as guileless as Eve's.

"I told you about that hint we were obliged to give Mr. Bundercombe," Mr. Harrison went on. "I suppose this is the result of it. He seems to have bewitched the whole of Little Bildborough. There's Jonas there, who was due to speak in four places today—he will take no notice of anybody. I walked by the side of his machine, begging him to get down and come and keep his engagements, and he took no more notice of me than if I'd been a rabbit!

"There's his cousin, who has more hold upon the nonconformists of the district than any man I know—sitting under a hedge drinking out of a tumbler! There are at least a score of men with their eyes glued on that tent who ought to be hard at work in the district. I am beginning to doubt whether they'll even be in in time to vote!"

"Well, we must be getting on, anyway," I said. "See you later, Mr. Harrison!"

Mr. Harrison nodded a little gloomily and we glided off. Eve squeezed my hand under the rug.

"Isn't dad a dear!" she murmured in my ear.

Eve was one of the first to congratulate me when, late that night, the results came in and I found that by a majority of twenty-seven votes I had been elected the member for the division.

"Aren't you glad now, Paul, dear, that we brought father down to keep him out of mischief?" she whispered.

Mr. Bundercombe himself held out his hand.

"Paul," he said, "I congratulate you, my boy! I was on the other side; but I can take a licking with the best of them. Congratulate you heartily!"

He held out his hand and gripped mine. Once more he winked.