“So much greediness in the country,” Sir Robert retorted, striking his stick upon the stone steps. “So much unscrupulousness, sir; so many liars promising, and so many fools listening; so much to get, and so many who would like it! There’s all that, if you please; but for excitement, I don’t know”—with a severe look—“what you mean, or what it has to do with us.” “I am afraid, sir, there is bad news from Devon, where it is said our candidate is retiring.” “A good man, but weak; neither one side nor the other.” “And from Dorset, sir, where they say Mr. Bankes will be beaten.” “I’ll not believe it,” Sir Robert answered positively. “I’ll never believe it. Mr. Bankes beaten in Dorset! Absurd! Why do you listen to such tales? Why do you listen? By G—d, White, what is the matter with you? Or how does it touch us if Mr. Bankes is beaten? Nine votes to four! Nine will still be nine, and four four, if he be beaten. When you can make four to be more than nine you may come whining to me!” White coughed. “Dyas, the butcher——” “What of him?” “Well, Sir Robert, I am afraid he has been getting some queer notions.” “Notions?” the baronet echoed in astonishment. “He has been listening to someone, and—and thinks he has views on the Bill.” Sir Robert exploded. “Views!” he cried. “Views! The butcher with views! Why, damme, White, you must be mad! Mad! Since when have butchers taken to politics, or had views?” “I don’t know anything about that, sir,” White mumbled. Sir Robert struck his stick fiercely on a step. “But I do! I do! And I know this,” he continued, “that for twenty years he’s had thirty pounds a year to vote as I tell him. By gad, I never heard such a thing in my life! Never! You don’t mean to tell me that the man thinks the vote’s his own to do what he likes with?” “I am afraid,” the agent admitted reluctantly, “that that is what he’s saying, sir.” Sir Robert’s thin face turned a dull red. “I never heard of such impudence in all my life,” he said, “never! A butcher with views! And going to vote for them! Why, damme,” he continued, with angry sarcasm, “we’ll have the tailors, the bakers, and the candlestickmakers voting their own way next. Good G—d! What does the man think he’s had thirty pounds a year for for all these years, if not to do as he is bid?” “He’s behaving very ill, sir,” White said, severely, “very ill.”