Alas, it was when the agent came to analyse his men that he had most need of the smile that deceives. True, the rector was there and the curate of Eastport, and the clerk and the sexton—the two last-named were voters. And there were also four or five squires arrayed in support of the gentlemanly interest, and as many young bucks come to see the fun. Then there were three other voters: the Alderman, who was a small grocer, and Annibal the basketmaker—these two were stalwarts—and Dewell the barber, also staunch, but a timid man. There was no Dyas, however, Sir Robert’s burliest supporter in old days, and his absence was marked. Nor any Thrush the pig-killer—the jaws of a Radical gaol held him. Nor, last and heaviest blow of all—for it had fallen without warning—was there any Pillinger of the Blue Duck. Pillinger, his wife said, was ill. What was worse he was in the hands of a Radical doctor capable, the agent believed, of hocussing him until the polling was over. The truth about Pillinger—whether he lay ill or whether he lay shamming, whether he was at the mercy of the apothecary or under the thumb of his wife—White could not learn. He hoped to learn it before it was too late. But for the present Pillinger was not here. The Alderman, Annibal, Dewell, the clerk, the sexton, and Arthur Vaughan. White totted them up again and again and made them six. The Bowood voters he made five—four stalwarts and Dyas the butcher. Certainly he might still poll Pillinger. But, on the other hand, Mr. Vaughan might arrive too late. White had written to his address in town, and receiving no answer had sent an express to Bristol on the chance that the young gentleman was still there. Probably he would be in time. But when things are so very close—and when there were alarm and defeat in the air—men grow nervous. White smiled as he chatted with the pompous Rector and the country squires, but he was very anxious. He thought of old Sir Robert at Stapylton, and he sweated at the notion of defeat. Cobbett had reached his mind, but Sir Robert had his heart! “Boo!” moaned the crowd higher up the street. The sound sank and the harsh voice of a speaker came fitfully over the heads of the people. “Who’s that?” asked old Squire Rowley, one of the country gentlemen. “Some spouter from Bristol, sir, I fancy,” the agent replied contemptuously. And with his eye he whipped in a couple of hobbledehoys who seemed inclined to stray towards the enemy. “I suppose,” the Squire continued, lowering his voice, “you can depend on your men, White?” “Oh, Lord, yes, sir,” White answered; like a good election agent he took no one into his confidence. “We’ve enough here to do the trick. Besides, young Mr. Vaughan will be here to-morrow, and the landlord of the Blue Duck, who is not well enough to walk to-day, will poll. He’d break his heart, bless you,” White continued, with a brow of brass, “if he could not vote for Sir Robert!” “Seven to five.” “Seven to four, sir.”