“You are a fool. Were Mr. Schwefel to recommend the devil, your duty would be to vote for the devil. What need you care who is on the ticket? You have only to write the names on the ticket—nothing more than that. Do you think progress would nominate men that are unfit—men who would not promote the interests of the state, who would not further the cause of humanity, civilization, and liberty? You are a fool for not voting for what is best for yourself.” “I am sorry now, but it’s too late.” sighed Leicht. “I wouldn’t have thought, either, that Mr. Schwefel would get angry because a man wanted to vote to the best of his judgment.” “There you are prating sillily again. Best of your judgment!—you mustn’t have any judgment. Leave it to others to judge; they have more brains, more sense, more knowledge than you. Progress does the thinking: our place is to blindly follow its directions.” “But, Mr. Spitzkopf, mine is only the vote of a poor man; and what matters such a vote?” “There is your want of sense again. We are living in a state that enjoys liberty. We are living in an age of intelligence, of moral advancement, of civilization and knowledge, in a word, we are living in an age of progress; and in an age of this sort the vote of a poor man is worth as much as that of a rich man.” “If only I had it to do over! I would give my right hand to have it to do over!” “You can repair the mischief if you want.” “Instruct me how, Mr. Spitzkopf; please tell me how!” “Very well, I will do my best. As you acted from thoughtlessness and no bad intention, doubtless Mr. Schwefel will suffer himself to be propitiated. Go down into the court, and wait till I come. I shall get you another ticket; you will then vote for progress, and all will be satisfactory.” “I am a thousand times obliged to you, Mr. Spitzkopf—a thousand times obliged!” The agent went back to the hall. Leicht descended to the courtyard, where he found a ring of timid operators like himself surrounding the sturdy Holt. They were talking in an undertone. As often as a progressionist drew near, their conversation was hushed altogether. Holt’s voice alone resounded loudly through the court, and his huge strong hands were cutting the air in animated gesticulations. “This is not a free election; it is one of compulsion and violence,” cried he. “Every factoryman is compelled to vote as his employer dictates, and should he refuse the employer discharges him from the work. Is not this most despicable tyranny! And these very tyrants of progress are perpetually prating about liberty, independence, civilization! That’s a precious sort of liberty indeed!” “A man belonging to the ultramontane party cannot walk the streets to‐day without being hooted and insulted,” said another. “Even up yonder in the hall, those gentlemen who are considered so cultivated stick their heads together and laugh scornfully when one of us draws near.”