The mob, however, was determined not to let Wentworth depart in peace. They followed him with stones and mud until he found shelter in the station waiting-room. ‘Good heavens!’ said the station-master. ‘Mr. Wentworth, what a state you are in! What have you been up to? Who would have thought of seeing you in such a mess?’ ‘Ah, Mr. Johnson, you remember me!’ ‘I should think so, sir. We all missed you when you left Bethesda Chapel. But what have you been doing?’ ‘Only speaking the truth to the free and independent electors of this enlightened borough.’ ‘You mean casting pearls before swine.’ ‘Well, I fear that is the proper way of putting it; but neither you nor I may say that in this place, and especially at this time.’ ‘No, the people are half crazy, and most of them tipsy. They always are so at election time. I can’t say who are the worst, Liberals or Tories, rich or poor—they all seem to me bad alike. The fact is, parties are very fairly divided here, that the election is really in the hands of a few, who only want a debauch, and don’t care a rap for politics of any kind. The only question with them is, Who will spend the most money? But what are you going to do?’ ‘Why, get out of the place as soon as possible.’ ‘Well, perhaps that is the best thing you can do; but first let me see if I can’t help to make you look a little more respectable.’ The attempt was partly successful; and having washed and covered his rags with a great-coat, and exchanged his battered hat for a travelling cap, Wentworth took his seat in a first-class carriage, and, lighting his cigar, mused on the dangers he had run, and the disgusting scene of which he had been a witness. ‘Good heavens!’ said he to himself, ‘what a farce! And yet there are those who say, _Vox populi_, _vox dei_! Happily, as a rule, we get gentlemen in Parliament, and the result of an election is not bad on the whole. Shall we be able to say as much when a lower class of candidates are returned?’ The Liberal press were angry, and Wentworth came in for his share of abuse. He laughed as he read of his wickedness. Still more did he laugh as he thought of the people who had interviewed him—the needy Scotchman who sympathized with his manly struggle, had read his speeches with undying interest, who fervently prayed that he might win, and who, though he was not an elector, felt sure that Wentworth was a Scotchman, and would lend a brother Scot a small loan; the ladies who had endeavoured to capture him by storm; the collectors of various great societies who felt sure that Wentworth would not refuse to subscribe to their funds, as all the Liberal candidates had done the same; the stupid questions he had to answer; the slanders of which he had been the victim; the enthusiasm he had evoked; the temporary importance he had achieved. It was an experience which he would not have missed, and so far he was quite satisfied with the result. CHAPTER XX. A STORM BREWING.