On returning home, however, he found the poet saying much harder things of, if not to, Mr. Roberts. Dale had been calling at the Smiths'. The Colonel, while shaking his head over Roberts' impudence, had applauded his opinions, and was, above all, enchanted with the extract from Dale's poem, which he had never hitherto read. His pleasure was, as he told Dale, greatly increased by finding that the letter and the quotation had fallen like a bombshell on the Grange household. "The Squire was furious. Mrs. Delane said she had no idea you had done anything so bad as that; and little Janet sat and looked as if someone had knocked down the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was splendid! Gad, sir, you've waked 'em up." These congratulations had the effect of reducing the poet almost to a frenzy. "What business," he demanded, "has the fellow to quote me in support of his balderdash without my leave?" "My dear fellow, your works are the possession of the nation," said Philip, smiling, as he lit a cigar. "It's an infernal liberty!" fumed Dale. "You light the fire, and blame it for blazing," said Philip. "One doesn't want to shove one's views down people's throats." "Doesn't one? One used to." "I shall write and disclaim any responsibility." "For the poem?" "For its publication, of course." "That won't do you much good." The Mayor's forecast, based on a lifelong observation of his neighbors, proved only too correct. Dr. Spink entered the lists against Roberts, and was elected by every vote save one. Sir Harry Fulmer, in blind and devoted obedience to Tora Smith, voted for Roberts; the rest, headed by the Squire, installed his rival in his place; and the Squire, having sternly done his duty, sat down and wrote a long and friendly letter of remonstrance and explanation to his erring friend. As misfortune followed misfortune, the Doctor set his teeth, and dared fate to do her worst. He waited a few days, hoping to be comforted by a word of approval from his master; none came. At last he determined to seek out Dale Bannister, and was about to start when his wife came in and gave him the new issue of the _Chronicle_. Ethel Roberts was pale and weary-looking, and she glanced anxiously at her husband. "I am going up to Littlehill," he said. "Have you done your round, dear?" "My round doesn't take long nowadays. Maggs will give me fifteen pounds for the pony: you know we don't want him now." "No, Jim, and we do want fifteen pounds." "What's that?" "The _Chronicle_, dear. There's--a letter from Mr. Bannister." "Is there? Good! Let's see what Bannister has to say to these bigoted idiots." He opened the paper, and in the middle of the front page read: A DISCLAIMER FROM MR. BANNISTER.