The next thing I remember was
a knock at the outer door. I opened my heavy eyes and stirred my stiff
joints. The Boots put his head in, and I realised it was daylight.

"Half-past eight, sir. Mr Cash is waiting downstairs. Poll's been open
half an hour, he says."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

TWO BATTLES.

Before I left the hotel I struck a bargain with Cash. I would go
anywhere and do anything, but he was to give me a written itinerary of
my movements for the day, clearly stating where I should be at various
times. This document I left in the hands of Dolly, who promised
faithfully to send for me, if--if necessary.

Then, putting my paternal instincts into my pocket, I braced myself up
and plunged into the vortex of polling-day.

Truly, if Time is the healer, Work is the anesthetic. In the turmoil of
the crowded streets and polling-booths, I found myself almost as
enthusiastic and whole-hearted as if no little girl of mine were
fighting for life in a darkened room not many streets away. I shook
hands with countless folk, I addressed meetings of the unwashed at
street corners, and received the plaudits or execrations of the
multitude with equal serenity.

Robin hastened away to the Hide-and-Tallow Works, whence, during the
dinner-hour, he charmed many an oleaginous elector to come and plump for
Inglethwaite, the Man Whom He Knew and Who Knew Him. Gerald and Donkin,
smothered in violets and primroses, were personally conducting a sort of
tumbril, which dashed across my field of vision from time to time,
sometimes full, sometimes empty, but always at full gallop.

Election "incidents" were plentiful. I was standing in the principal
polling-station at one time, when a gentleman called Hoppett, a cobbler
by persuasion--I think I have already mentioned him as the benignant
individual who used to come to the door of his establishment and pursue
me with curses down the street--came out from recording his vote. He did
not see me, but caught sight of Robin, who had just arrived with a
_posse_ of electors, and was standing by the Returning Officer's table.
Hobbling up, the cobbler shook a gnarled fist under my secretary's nose.

"I've voted against your man," he shouted. "We're goin' to be rid of the
lot of you this time. Set of reskils!... I've put my mark against
Stridge, I have; and against Inglethwaite's name I've put a picture of a
big boot--one of my own making, too! The big boot!" he screamed
ecstatically--"that's