Hatred is a motive, like any other, and a strong one. It resulted in Tom’s conceiving the ambition, while he was a “little piecer,” that he would some day be secretary of the Spinners’ Union and in that office would lead labor against the Hepplestalls. He was his own man now, living not at home but in lodgings, hardily keeping himself on the wages of a “little piecer” of eighteen, reading the _Clarion_, and presently startling a Sunday School debating society with the assertion that he read Marx and Engels in the original. It was not long after that astonishing revelation of his secret studies that he became unofficial assistant to the local secretary of the spinners, and might regard himself as launched on a career which was to take him in 1906 to the House of Commons. An election incident accounted chiefly for Sir Philip’s good opinion of Tom Bradshaw. Tom might forget the legend, but the legend could not forget a candidate, and it was thrown into the cockpit by some zealous supporter who imagined that Tom would ride that romantic horse and win in a canter. Tom thought otherwise; a story obscurely propagated amongst Staithley’s tender-hearted Samaritans was one thing, emerging into the fierce light which beats upon a candidate it was another. He was out to win on the merits of his case, not by means of a sentimental appeal which, anyhow, might be a boomerang if the other side took the matter up with the concurrence of the Hepplestalls. But it was not that afterthought, it was purely his resolution that the issues should not be confused, that took him straight to Sir Philip. Sir Philip looked a question at him. “It might be Union business,” said Tom, “but it isn’t. It’s the election and I’m here, which is the other camp, to make you an appeal. There’s a thing being said in Staithley that touches you and me. I haven’t said it, but it was said by folk that thought they spoke on my behalf. You’ll have heard tell of it?” “I’ve heard,” said Sir Philip. “Well,” said Tom, “there’s always a lot of rubbish shot at elections, but the less the better. Will you help me to get rid of this particular load of rubbish? Will you help me to tell the truth?” “Is there question of the truth?” “Not in my mind. But in theirs, there is. They believed what they said of you and me.” And he went on to tell Sir Philip of the belief of the Bradshaws and of its acceptance by others. “You can put it that it’s never been an easy thing for me to be a Bradshaw in Staithley. We’re known as the Begging Bradshaws and it’s been a load I’ve had to carry that I’m one of them by birth. They’ve begged on the strength of this story. But it’s only hurt me up to now. It’s going to hurt others to-day, it’s going to hurt my cause and I’m here not to apologize for folks that have done no more than said what they believe: I’m here to ask if you will join with me in publishing the truth.”