vage grunting of
an enraged animal and the shriller note of thirteen young voices, three
of them human, guided them to the stye, in the outer yard of which a huge
Yorkshire sow kept up a ceaseless raging patrol before a closed door.
Reclining on the broad ledge of an open window, from which point of
vantage he could reach down and shoot the bolt of the door, was Hyacinth,
his blue sailor-suit somewhat the worse of wear, and his angel smile
exchanged for a look of demoniacal determination.

"If any of you come a step nearer," he shouted, "the sow will be inside
in half a jiffy."

A storm of threatening, arguing, entreating expostulation broke from the
baffled rescue party, but it made no more impression on Hyacinth than the
squealing tempest that raged within the stye.

"If Jutterly heads the poll I'm going to let the sow in. I'll teach the
blighters to win elections from us."

"He means it," said Mrs. Panstreppon; "I feared the worst when I saw that
butterscotch incident."

"It's all right, my little man," said Jutterly, with the duplicity to
which even a Colonial Secretary can sometimes stoop, "your father has
been elected by a large majority."

"Liar!" retorted Hyacinth, with the directness of speech that is not
merely excusable, but almost obligatory, in the political profession;
"the votes aren't counted yet. You won't gammon me as to the result,
either. A boy that I've palled with is going to fire a gun when the poll
is declared; two shots if we've won, one shot if we haven't."

The situation began to look critical. "Drug the sow," whispered
Hyacinth's father.

Some one went off in the motor to the nearest chemist's shop and returned
presently with two large pieces of bread, liberally dosed with narcotic.
The bread was thrown deftly and unostentatiously into the stye, but
Hyacinth saw through the manoeuvre. He set up a piercing imitation of a
small pit in Purgatory, and the infuriated mother ramped round and round
the stye; the pieces of bread were trampled into slush.

At any moment now the poll might be declared. Jutterly flew back to the
Town Hall, where the votes were being counted. His agent met him with a
smile of hope.

"You're eleven ahead at present, and only about eighty more to be
counted; you're just going to squeak through."

"I mustn't squeak through," exclaimed Jutterly, hoarsely. "You must
object to every doubtful vote on our side that can possibly be
disallowed. I must _not_