On the Monday George and his father went home. It is very depressing, after being with people who have been at their best, and with whom we have been at our best, to descend upon ordinary existence. George felt it particularly as he stood in the shop on Tuesday morning and reflected that for the whole of that day—for his father was out—he should probably not say nor hear a word for which he cared a single straw. But there was to be an election meeting that evening, and Mr. Allen was to speak, and George, of course, must be there. The evening came, and the room at the Mechanics’ Institute, which had just been established in Cowfold, was crowded. Admission was not by ticket, so that, though the Whigs had convened it, there was a strong muster of the enemy. Mr. Allen moved the first resolution in a stirring speech, which was constitutionally interrupted with appeals to him to go home and questions about a grey mare—“_How about old Pinfold’s grey mare_?”—which seemed conclusive and humorous to the last degree. Old Pinfold was a well-known character in Cowfold, horse-dealer, pig-jobber, attendant at races, with no definite occupation, and the grey mare was an animal which he managed to impose upon Mr. Allen, who sued him and lost. When Mr. Allen’s resolution had been duly seconded, one Rogers, a publican, got up and said he had something to say. There was indescribable confusion, some crying, “Turn him out;” others “Pitch into ’em, Bill.” Bill Rogers was well known as the funny man in Cowfold, a half-drunken buffoon, whose wit, such as it was, was retailed all over the place; a man who was specially pleased if he could be present in any assembly collected for any serious purpose and turn it into ridicule. He got upon a chair, not far from where George sat, but refused to go upon the platform. “No, thank yer my friends, I’m best down here; up there’s the place for the gentlefolk, the clever uns, them as buy grey mares!”—(roars of laughter)—“but, Mr. Chairman, with your permission”—and here Bill put his had upon his chest and made a most profound bow to the chair, which caused more laughter—“there is just one question I should like to ask—not about the grey mare, sir”—(roars of laughter again)—“but I see a young gentleman here beknown to us all”—(points to George)—“and I should just like to ask him, does his mother-in-law—not his mother, you observe, sir—does his mother-in-law know he’s out?” Once more there was an explosion, for Mr. Broad’s refusal to take part in the contest was generally ascribed to Mrs. Broad. George sat still for a moment, hardly realising his position, and then the blood rose to his head; up crashed across the forms, and before the grin had settled into smoothness on Bill’s half-intoxicated features there was a grip like that of a giant on his greasy coat collar; he was dragged amidst shouts and blows to the door, George nothing heeding, and dismissed with such energy that he fell prostrate on the pavement. His