Somewhere far away sounded a long-drawn whistle, now faint, now clearer, a modulated wail broken at moments by a tremolo on one high note. It was like a voice lamenting to the dead of night. Glazzard could not endure it; he turned back into the station and tramped noisily on the stone platform. Then the air was disturbed by the dull roar of an approaching train, and presently a long string of loaded waggons passed without pause. The engine-fire glowed upon heavy puffs of smoke, making them a rich crimson. A freight of iron bars clanged and clashed intolerably. When remoteness at length stilled them, there rose again the long wailing whistle; it was answered by another like it from still greater distance. Glazzard could stand and walk no longer. He threw himself on a seat, crossed his arms, and remained motionless until the ringing of a bell and a sudden turning on of lights warned him that his train drew near. On the way to Polterham he dozed, and only a fortunate awaking at the last moment saved him from passing his station. It was now close upon two o'clock, and he had a two-mile walk to Highmead. His brother believed that he was spending the evening with an acquaintance in a neighbouring town; he had said he should probably be very late, and a side door was to be left unbarred that he might admit himself with a latch-key. But for a policeman here and there, the streets were desolate. Wherever the lamplight fell upon a wall or hoarding, it illumined election placards, with the names of the candidates in staring letters, and all the familiar vulgarities of party advertising. "Welwyn-Baker and the Honour of Old England!"--"Vote for Quarrier, the Friend of the Working Man!"--"No Jingoism!" "The Constitution in Danger! Polterham to the Rescue!" These trumpetings to the battle restored Glazzard's self-satisfaction; he smiled once more, and walked on with lighter step. Just outside the town, in a dark narrow road, he was startled by the sudden rising of a man's figure. A voice exclaimed, in thick, ebrious tones: "Who are you for? What's you're colour?" "Who are _you_ for?" called out Glazzard, in return, as he walked past. The politician--who had seemingly been asleep in the ditch--raised himself to his full height and waved his arms about. "I'm a Radical!--Quarrier for ever!--Come on, one and all of you--I'm ready: fist or argument, it's all one to me!--You and your Welwyn-Baker--gurr! What's _he_ ever done for the people?--that's what _I_ want to know!--Ya-oo-oo-oo! Quarrier for ever!--Down with the aristocrats as wants to make war at the expense of the working man! What's England coming to?--tell me that! You've no principles, you haven't, you Tory skunks; you've not half a principle among you.--I'm a man of principle, I am, and I vote for national morality, I do!--You're running away, are you?--Ya-oo-oo!--stop and fight it out, if you're a man!--Down with 'em, boys! Down with 'em!--Quarrier for ever!"