“It’s all right, my little man,” said Jutterly, with the duplicity to which even a Colonial Secretary can sometimes stoop, “your father has been elected by a large majority.” “Liar!” retorted Hyacinth, with the directness of speech that is not merely excusable, but almost obligatory, in the political profession; “the votes aren’t counted yet. You won’t gammon me as to the result, either. A boy that I’ve palled with is going to fire a gun when the poll is declared; two shots if we’ve won, one shot if we haven’t.” The situation began to look critical. “Drug the sow,” whispered Hyacinth’s father. Some one went off in the motor to the nearest chemist’s shop and returned presently with two large pieces of bread, liberally dosed with narcotic. The bread was thrown deftly and unostentatiously into the stye, but Hyacinth saw through the manœuvre. He set up a piercing imitation of a small pig in Purgatory, and the infuriated mother ramped round and round the stye; the pieces of bread were trampled into slush. At any moment now the poll might be declared. Jutterly flew back to the Town Hall, where the votes were being counted. His agent met him with a smile of hope. “You’re eleven ahead at present, and only about eighty more to be counted; you’re just going to squeak through.” “I mustn’t squeak through,” exclaimed Jutterly, hoarsely. “You must object to every doubtful vote on our side that can possibly be disallowed. I must _not_ have the majority.” Then was seen the unprecedented sight of a party agent challenging the votes on his own side with a captiousness that his opponents would have hesitated to display. One or two votes that would have certainly passed muster under ordinary circumstances were disallowed, but even so Jutterly was six ahead with only thirty more to be counted. To the watchers by the stye the moments seemed intolerable. As a last resort some one had been sent for a gun with which to shoot the sow, though Hyacinth would probably draw the bolt the moment such a weapon was brought into the yard. Nearly all the men were away from their homes, however, on election night, and the messenger had evidently gone far afield in his search. It must be a matter of minutes now to the declaration of the poll. A sudden roar of shouting and cheering was heard from the direction of the Town Hall. Hyacinth’s father clutched a pitchfork and prepared to dash into the stye in the forlorn hope of being in time. A shot rang out in the evening air. Hyacinth stooped down from his perch and put his finger on the bolt. The sow pressed furiously against the door. “Bang,” came another shot. Hyacinth wriggled back, and sent a short ladder down through the window of the inner stye. “Now you can come up, you unclean little blighters,” he sang out; “my daddy’s got in, not yours. Hurry up, I can’t keep the sow waiting much longer. And don’t you jolly well come butting into any election again where I’m on the job.”