There was to be a fresh election for the Reichstag in the district, the conservative candidate's victory having been disallowed. He had only been successful after a second ballot, in which the votes of the two parties had held the balance almost even; and the election had just been declared null and void, in consequence of the protest made by the social-democrats. The two rival parties, social-democrats and conservatives, were now preparing anew for battle. Every single vote was of consequence, and canvassing went on busily. Election literature flooded the constituency; it was thrown in at open windows and pushed under door-sills. The turnpike-keeper had hitherto always placed himself at the disposal of the conservative candidate. The conservative party liked to display names of the "small people" of the neighbourhood on the list of their supporters, in addition to signatures of councillors of state, burgomasters, landlords, &c. And now suddenly Friedrich August Vogt came and demanded to have his name taken off the list. The president of the election committee, a cavalry officer in the reserve and the lord of the manor, attempted to make him reconsider his determination. He wanted to know the reasons for this sudden change of conviction, and asked pathetically if the old soldier was going to be unfaithful at this time of day to the motto: "God, King, and Country"? Vogt stuck to his demand, but he declined to give any reasons. On the day of the election the turnpike-keeper was troubled with a feverish unrest. Ten times and more he put on his hat and stood at the house door with his big stick in his hand, but he always turned back again. The polling was to end at six o'clock. Shortly before that hour he strung himself up to a resolve. He left the house hastily, and hurried to the ale-house, in the garden of which the polling-booth had been erected. Before the door stood the two men who were distributing voting-papers. Tired with their day's work, they were leaning against the paling in front of the tavern. One of them, employed by the conservatives, was a superannuated farm labourer from the manor; the socialist was an invalided stonemason, who had lost a leg in consequence of a fall from some scaffolding. They were chatting together in a friendly fashion, notwithstanding the antagonism of their employers. The one-legged man did not even give himself the trouble to offer Vogt one of his voting-papers. Everybody knew old Vogt. The blood of an old soldier ran in his veins, he was conservative to the bone. The farm labourer held out a conservative voting-paper, and said: "You are nearly too late, Herr Vogt. Here is your vote." But the turnpike-keeper turned away with a lowering look. He stretched out his hand to the other man and demanded a voting-paper, with which the stonemason hastened to furnish him; and Friedrich August Vogt stumped heavily up the steps into the polling-station.