In vain he argued all government, more or less, was that, and that small-pox was an awful malady, against which it behoved the nation to take every precaution. He spoke in vain. The anti-vaccinators did not go so far as to say, as the old opponents did, that vaccination made children as hairy as bullocks, or that it led them to bellow like bulls. In our day they have shifted their grounds, but their opposition remains the same. The Sabbatarians came next. They were Liberals mostly, with a sprinkling of Tory Evangelicals, yet rather than see any mitigation in the severity of the Jewish Sabbath, any attempt made to divert the working man from the public-house on a Sunday, they declared themselves dead against Mr. Wentworth. The loafers, of course, were against him. He refused to treat them to beer. He kept no public-houses open. He did not even offer to stand glasses round when they called. If he was above obliging them, why should they put themselves out of their way to oblige him? He was for purity and independence. Little they cared for either the one or the other. Every hour it seemed to him that his chance grew less. What was the good of talking about an improved foreign policy, about the advancement of the people in political power, about the reduction of taxation, or free trade in land, or land reform, to such men? According to one class, an election was simply an excuse for bribery and corruption. It meant money and beer. A candidate was to be bled to the uttermost farthing, and he was to repay himself how he could, and as best he could, when he got into Parliament. According to another class, a General Election was simply an opportunity for fighting on side issues, and the ventilation of all sorts of fads. Musing on these things, the waiter came to him to announce another visitor. Mr. Wentworth groaned. ‘Not a lady, sir.’ ‘Thank God for that!’ he replied. ‘A gentleman this time.’ ‘Show him in.’ ‘Ah, Mr. Wentworth,’ said the new visitor, ‘I thought I would just run in and see you.’ ‘Happy to see you—take a seat.’ ‘I have read your programme, and am delighted with it.’ ‘Sir, you flatter me.’ ‘Not a bit of it. It is just what I like. I don’t think I could have done it better myself. You’re the coming man—all Sloville will rally round you.’ ‘It does not seem like it at present,’ said Wentworth gloomily. ‘My dear sir, you astonish me; I should have thought a man of your talent would have carried everything before him. But I see I am come in the nick of time—quite providential, as it were. I can promise you entire success.’ ‘Upon what terms?’