“We must spot the boor,” said Erdfloh. “His swaggering shall not avail him anything.” Holt was not the only voter that proved refractory. Mr. Schwefel, also, had a disagreeable surprise. He was standing near the entrance, observing with great self‐complacency how the workmen in his employ submissively cast their votes for Shund and his associates. Schwefel regarded himself as of signal importance in the commonwealth, for he controlled not less than four hundred votes, and the side which it was his pleasure to favor could not fail of victory. The head of the great leader seemed in a manner encircled with the halo of progress: whilst his retainers passed and saluted him, he experienced something akin to the pride of a field‐marshal reviewing a column of his victorious army. Just then a spare little man appeared in the door. His yellowish, sickly complexion gave evidence that he was employed in the sulphurating of straw. At sight of the commander the sulphur‐hued little man shrank back, but his startled look did not escape the restless eye of Mr. Schwefel. He beckoned to the laborer. “Have you selected your ticket, Leicht?” “Yes, sir.” “Let me see the ticket.” The man obeyed reluctantly. Scarcely had Schwefel got a glimpse of the paper when his brows gathered darkly. “What means this? Have you selected the yellow ticket and not the green one?” Leicht hung his head. He thought of the consequences of this detection, of his four small children, of want of employment, of hunger and bitter need—he was almost beside himself. “If you vote for the priests, you may get your bread from the priests,” said Schwefel. “The moment you hand that ticket to the commissary, you may consider yourself discharged from my employ.” With this he angrily turned his back upon the man. Leicht did not reach in his ticket to the commissary. Staggering out of the hall, he stood bewildered near the railing of the steps, and stared vaguely upon the men who were coming and going. Spitzkopf slipped up to him. “What were you thinking about, man?” asked he reproachfully. “Mr. Schwefel is furious—you are ruined. Sheer stupidity, nothing but stupidity in you to wish to vote in opposition to the pleasure of the man from whom you get your bread and meat! Not only that, but you have insulted the whole community, for you have chosen to vote against progress when all the town is in favor of progress. You will be put on the spotted list, and the upshot will be that you will not get employment in any factory in town. Do you want to die of hunger, man—do you want your children to die of hunger?” “You are right—I am ruined,” said the laborer listlessly. “I couldn’t bring myself to write Shund’s name because he reduced my brother‐in‐law to beggary—this is what made me select the yellow ticket.”