Templeton sat beside Mrs. Pouncey, looking around the audience with an air of mild interest, and quite unconscious that the good lady was basking in the glory reflected upon her by the companionship of the "young feller as had his name in the paper." She nodded and smiled at her friends and acquaintances, and bridled visibly when she saw heads put together, nods in her direction, curious glances at Templeton, and lips whispering into ready ears. The hall gradually filled. Tradesmen of the town, farmers from the outskirts, a sprinkling of khaki, and a considerable number of women, occupied all the chairs, and overflowed into the aisles along the walls. Conversation buzzed; the broad Doric of the county mingled quaintly with the north-country burr and the cockney twang of the soldiers whom chance had camped in the neighbourhood. "Where be Mr. Eves, I wonder?" said Mrs. Pouncey, presently. She was in truth disappointed. "Mr. Templeton was a nice young gentleman, to be sure" (so she afterwards confided to a gossip), "but he was that quiet—well, you didn’t like to speak to him promiscous-like, for fear you spoiled the high thoughts a-rooting in his mind. But that Mr. Eves, now—well, you weren’t afeared of high thoughts with him. He was a merry feller, that he was, full of his fun; and talk—my dear, you should have heard him; ’twas just as if you poured out a kettle till it run dry, and the most beautiful long words, I do assure ’ee." "Where be Mr. Eves, I wonder?" The question roused Templeton from his abstracted scrutiny of the audience. He glanced at his watch; it was two minutes to seven. Some of the soldiers were already stamping their feet and calling "Time!" He looked up and down the hall, along the walls, into the doorway. Eves was not to be seen. A misgiving seized him. Eves had been very keen on coming to this meeting. Was he contemplating a "rag"? The idea made Templeton perspire. An outburst of cheers and clapping of hands drew his attention from his uneasy thoughts. The platform party had arrived. Noakes, wearing his chain of office, stepped first on to the platform. He was followed by a lean, hungry-looking man with fiery eyes, clean-shaven, his reddish hair brushed up from the scalp. Templeton recognised the features of a fanatical agitator whose portrait had appeared in the picture papers. The local Labour candidate, a burly fellow with a jolly red face and closely trimmed beard, took his seat beside the speaker of the evening, and the remaining chairs on the platform were occupied by his principal supporters, male and female. The cheers subsided, and the mayor rose. In the silence a high-pitched voice enquired from the rear of the hall, "Who said burglar?" Some of the audience laughed, some cried "Shame!" and a shrill cry of "It wasn’t me!" and a scuffle announced that the chucker-out had proved more than equal to the occasion. Noakes smiled blandly until the noise had ceased: then he began.