CHAPTER IV.
A DISASTROUS DASH INTO THE FRAY.
Lord Stranleigh, rarely very exuberant, nevertheless maintained a calm, equable cheerfulness that made him exceedingly companionable. Cynical people said: "Why shouldn't he be cheerful, rolling in millions?" but it has been authoritatively stated that wealth does not bring happiness, though it is difficult to meet a man who really believes this. The afore-mentioned cynical people were wont to remark that nothing could disturb Stranleigh's equanimity except a crease in his trousers, or a coat that set badly at the shoulders. In this they were wrong, because at times a Scotchman could seriously interfere with his poise. Indeed, Stranleigh once remarked that he believed in the good qualities of Scotchmen as much as he believed in Providence, never having seen either.
The dour Peter Mackeller, who was compounded of many virtues, often got on Stranleigh's nerves, and when Alexander Corbitt was in one of his more obstinate moods, he could depress Stranleigh away below zero.
Stranleigh entered the large smoking-room of the Camperdown Club with the eager joyfulness of a man who had made an unexpected discovery, and wanted to talk about it, but after a quarter of an hour's conversation with Corbitt, he set down his half-smoked cigar on the ash-tray, and, leaving his glass untasted, rose to his feet.
"All right, Corbitt!" he said. "Don't worry any more about it. Sorry I inflicted my stupidity upon you. Forgive me. Good-night," and the young man who, fifteen minutes before, had entered with light step, retired a walking picture of dejection.
A wry smile twisted Corbitt's lips, but he said nothing. Behind Corbitt, in an easy, leathern arm-chair, reading his evening paper, sat a venerable gentleman with ruddy face and snow-white hair and whiskers. He seemed to be a typical English country squire, who enjoyed a good meal and sound wine. As the conversation between Corbitt and Stranleigh went on, animated at first so far as the latter was concerned, the old man's paper sank to his knees. He rested his white head on the padded back of his chair, and quite undisguisedly listened to the talk, an ever-increasing smile lighting up his face. He was Sir George Selwyn, founder and supposedly chief shareholder of Selwyn's Bank, of which the crusty Corbitt was manager. When Stranleigh had disappeared. Sir George said quietly:—
"Alexander, turn your chair round this way. I have been listening to your conversation, and I wish to make some comments on it."
The usually impassive Corbitt promptly obeyed, but on this occasion could not conceal that he was startled. Sir George was about the only man on earth he deferred to, as Selwyn, being president of the bank, held Corbitt's commercial life in his hands. Sir George, however, had shown his confidence in, and even his liking for, Corbitt. It was through his influence that the younger man had been admitted into this rather particular club. Sir George, still smiling, said:—
"Do you know the last line of a most difficult verse from Browning, which G. K. Chesterton shows to be one of the simplest ever written, and confounds us all by the explanation?"
"I have no idea what you mean. Sir George.
"Why, I thought you Scotch were a poetical people? It's the verse about fishing the murex up, and it ends: 'What porridge had John Keats?'"
"It crossed my mind, as I listened to you and Stranleigh, that Chesterton shows how easy it is to make us all seem stupid and ignorant. You made Stranleigh look rather a fool."
"Well, Sir George, he exasperates me sometimes by asking questions that any urchin on the street could answer."
"'What porridge had John Keats?'" mused Sir George. "That question takes on a new meaning for me. Porridge is a kind of granular food, I understand, softened by heat and moisture, much favoured in the north."
"Because of its cheapness," snapped Corbitt.
"I daresay; and there is oat-cake. I tried it once at a pinch, while on a shooting excursion. It was about as hard as cast-iron and delicious as baked sawdust. Now, you were brought up on these two foods."
"I admit it," said Corbitt. "Proud of it."
"Yes; a man has a right to be proud of such endurance, but did you ever suspect that something of the hardness of oat-cake may have got into your nature?"
"It is quite possible. I hope so."
Sir George laughed.
"I see I can make no impression on you, so let us talk about Stranleigh, and about long-headed wisdom, supposed to be a Scottish quality. You have known Stranleigh for some time?"
"Yes."
"Do you always treat him as you did to-night?"
"Oh, I have had many a pleasant conversation with Stranleigh."
"Pleasant for him?"
"I hope so."
"Do you think him at all revengeful?"
"I don't exactly know what to think of him. Sometimes he seems to be a blithering idiot, and at others merely an ignorant ass."
The tolerant old man smiled inscrutably.
"I doubt your judgment and I deplore your diplomacy. If he happens to be quietly vindictive, I shouldn't like to be in your shoes. Stranleigh is the real owner of Selwyn's Bank."
Even the stolid Corbitt looked aghast at this intelligence.
"He can turn me out of the presidency whenever he wishes to do so. Judge, therefore, how insecure is your position."
Corbitt's firm jaw snapped shut, then he said sharply:
"He may have my resignation to-morrow if he wants it."
Sir George laughed heartily.
"He doesn't want it, my belligerent manager. I think all he desires from you is a little civility when he asks elementary questions. With so much money in his possession, Stranleigh's chief difficulty is the finding of reasonably safe investments. He came to me some months ago to seek my advice, and to make a proposal. You must not suppose there was any surreptitious buying of stock in the bank. He arranged with me before he purchased a single share. I am to be president while I live, or until I resign. When I quit the presidency, Stranleigh has determined that you shall succeed me. He feels great confidence in you.
"Now, Corbitt, speaking in a cautious, Scottish way, as Stranleigh can turn us both out into the street at any moment he wishes to do so, don't you think it would be wise on our part to answer very civilly whatever questions he asks, even if the subject is politics, which I know you detest?"
"Sir George, I have always thought you the wisest man in London, and now I am sure of it. Not because Stranleigh has the power to dismiss me, but through the fact that he is a very decent fellow, I shall take care in future to speak to him fair. But here he comes, quite recovered from his depression. I hope he won't discharge me before I have time to make amends."
Stranleigh advanced towards the corner where the president and manager of Selwyn's Bank sat confronting one another, both watching his approach. There was no trace of resentment on the young nobleman's face. He greeted Sir George very deferentially, then turned with a twinkle in his eye upon Corbitt.
"Alexander," he said, "I have returned to enjoy an intimate confidential chat with you on the subject of radium."
"Radium!" cried Corbitt, in amazement.
"Yes; there are seventeen questions regarding radium that I wish answered."
"Well, you've come to the wrong shop, my lord. I don't know the first thing about radium."
"That is at once astonishing and gratifying. It is astonishing that any branch of knowledge is unknown to you, and it is gratifying that you will be unable to look down upon me from the lofty pinnacle of scientific erudition."
"I was just being lectured by Sir George here on my deficiencies. I don't think you can better his censure, but there's no harm in trying."
"My dear Corbitt; I shouldn't venture to censure you. I merely happened to meet Sir William Ramsay in the library, and he was extremely kind to me, settling some points about radium that I never understood before. But there is a deeper mystery than radium, which perhaps Sir William could have solved, yet I didn't like to ask him, so I kept the question for you."
"All right; fire away. I'll answer it if I can."
"The mystery is, why should Sir William be so polite and courteous?"
"Why shouldn't he be?"
"Because, Corbitt, he was born in Glasgow."
Sir George Selwyn laughed so heartily that finally Corbitt joined him. Stranleigh went on seriously, unheeding the mirth.
"I came here, Sir George, to consult with Corbitt anent my political duty during the coming election."
"And I," said Corbitt, "refuse to be consulted about a thing that doesn't exist."
"What doesn't exist?" demanded Stranleigh.
"Your political duty. You haven't any political duty except to keep out of the fight. You might have voted in the House of Lords, but you won't have even that obligation to perform until after the election. The moment the writs are issued, you daren't open your mouth on the political situation. You must not write a letter to a candidate, and it is a criminal offence if you try to influence an elector concerning his vote. You just attempt any political duty, Lord Stranleigh, before the last poll is declared, and you may find yourself in one of His Majesty's prisons."
"Is that true, Sir George, or is he merely chaffing me?"
"True enough, Stranleigh. Until after the election you are politically the most helpless of human beings."
"You amaze me!" exclaimed Stranleigh. "I gathered through reading the newspapers that I was trampling underfoot the liberties of the free-born voters of this country; that I represented nobody, yet throttled the nation, and therefore must be swept away."
"I believe," said Sir George, "that rather accurately states the condition of things, but if I were you, Stranleigh, I wouldn't worry, and especially do I advise you not to take any steps towards the defence of your order. I think a peer, defending the House of Peers, does more harm than good. The best plan for one in your lordship's position is to keep quiet. You have the consolation of knowing that the greatest Liberal statesman of the last century, the Right Honourable W. E. Gladstone, made no impression on the House of Lords, so I should say that this job lot of politicians is not likely to succeed where he failed."
"Oh, you mistake my point of view entirely, Sir George," replied Stranleigh, rising in his eagerness, and pacing up and down before him. "I favour the abolition of the House of Lords."
"What!" roared Corbitt in amazement.
Old Sir George held his hand open behind his ear.
"I suspect, my lord, that age is interfering with my hearing. Would you mind repeating that sentence?"
"I favour the destruction of the House of Lords as a branch of legislation."
For a few moments there was silence, then it was Corbitt who spoke.
"I must confess," he said, "that I view politics entirely from a banker's standpoint. I think as a banker, and I vote as a banker. I am opposed to turmoil and change. The House of Lords has served us very effectually for a number of centuries, and although doubtless the peers have made mistakes, it is also true that upon occasion they gauged the popular will with more accuracy than Mr. Gladstone himself. As long as I am manager of Selwyn's Bank, I'm against any tinkering with the Constitution. All such meddling is bad for business. I'm a banker first, and a politician a long way to the rear."
I quite agree with you, Alexander," remarked Sir George, solemnly.
Stranleigh looked from one to the other in perplexity.
"The trouble with this club," he protested, "is that its members are all of one opinion, therefore an ignorant man like myself cannot learn the other side to any question."
"My dear Stranleigh," said Corbitt, "you've been having both sides of radium, I understand."
"And of banking," added Sir George, nodding at the manager.
"My own theory," continued Corbitt, "is that there are never two sides to a question. There can't be; although a lot of fools pose as fair-minded people, and pretend to be impartial when they're merely insane. To every question there is but one right side, and practical men do not waste time in looking at any other. In a political problem the side that makes for increase of business and stability of business is the right side."
Sir George signified his approval.
"It must be comfortable to feel as sure of anything as you do, Corbitt," said Stranleigh. "If I take an opposite view about the House of Lords, my view must be wrong, I suppose?"
"Of course."
Stranleigh rose, walked over to a writing-table, penned a few lines on a sheet of club paper, and returned.
"Corbitt, get that put into legal form, and I'll sign it. It gives Sir George Selwyn and yourself complete control of Selwyn's Bank. Thus you see any political vagaries of mine shall not be allowed to intrude themselves into the directors'-room."
"Politically, what do you intend to do?" asked Sir George, gravely.
"I shall endeavour to assist the party opposed to the House of Lords."
"Yes, but how?"
"I thought at first of resigning my seat in the House of Lords, and getting adopted as a candidate by some constituency for the House of Commons, but I am told that it is impossible."
"Quite. A peer or a felon cannot enter the Commons."
"An imbecile also is prohibited," interpolated Corbitt, "so even if Stranleigh could shake off his peerage, he is still barred from the suffrages of his countrymen."
Stranleigh laughed good-naturedly at this jibe on the part of the manager, who had evidently forgotten the warning given by the venerable president.
"I daresay I shan't do very much," said Stranleigh, unperturbed. "I am too lazy. I'll try a few speeches, and when they stop me at that I'll contribute to the party funds."
"I've already told you that when the real speechifying begins you'll be compelled to turn off the tap of your eloquence. Mum's the word for a peer after the writs are issued. As to contributing, you need to be even more careful. The Corrupt Practices Act bristles with difficulties for an amateur philanthropist. Better consult a good solicitor, well versed in parliamentary law, before you exercise undue lavishness."
"Thanks, Corbitt, I will, and good-night to you both. I must get home early and cogitate over this crisis."
The two men remained silent for some time after the young earl had taken his departure. It was Sir George who spoke first.
"There goes," he said, "the greatest danger to the Conservative Party."
"Oratory or cash?" asked Corbitt.
"Oh, his oratory will come to very little one way or another. But just imagine if he filled the war-chest of the Radicals with one million, two million or three million pounds? He could do it without feeling the loss, and the amount judiciously expended would sweep the reformers in by an overwhelming majority, merely by organisation, paid stump speakers, and thousands of motor cars on election day; all without in the least infringing on your Corrupt Practices Act."
"What an appalling prospect! Long and favourably as I have known Stranleigh, I should follow him now and sandbag him. By jove, I'll do it!" continued Corbitt, rising suddenly.
"Do what?" cried Sir George in alarm.
"I'll sandbag him."
"Nonsense, nonsense!" warned Selwyn. "Sit down, Corbitt. Don't you become as mad in one direction as Stranleigh is in another."
Corbitt laughed.
"I'm afraid, Sir George, you do not understand the ethics of the sandbag. If you hit a man on the head with a sledge-hammer, you fracture his skull and kill him. The sandbag breaks no bones. It merely knocks the victim insensible, and then you can do what you please with him. He never knows what struck him. Now, watch me sandbag Stranleigh without leaving this room."
The manager crossed over to the writing-table at which Stranleigh had sat a few minutes before. He wrote a letter and addressed an envelope, then returned to his chief, who awaited him with anxious face.
"Lester Brent," explained Corbitt, "is by way of being a friend of mine. I have done him one or two good turns in business, and he believes a banker has no politics. He is Chairman of the Government Elections Committee. Now, hear my truthful epistle to him:—
"Dear Brent,—With a General Election pending, do not get alarmed at receiving a letter from an Opposition Club, but treat this communication as private. You know I do not meddle in politics, but to-night there came to my knowledge a piece of information which I think you ought to know, for it may be very important. I have reason to believe that Earl Stranleigh of Wychwood is about to take as active a part in the coming contest as the law will allow. His almost fabulous wealth invests him with enormous power. I dare not do more than give you a hint, which is that classic quotation to the effect that you should distrust the Greeks when they bring gifts.
"Keep your eye on Stranleigh, and you may be able to trip him up.
"Ever yours,
"Ah!" murmured Sir George. "Your object is to sow suspicion in the minds of the Government party?"
"Certainly. When you add that little mustard-seed to the already enormous mass of distrust against the Lords, if he were the Angel Gabriel himself poor Stranleigh could not persuade Brent he was on his side. Thus do I sandbag his lordship, who will never know who or what struck him."
A few minutes later the missive was on its way to the General Post Office, and was duly delivered to Lester Brent himself, being marked "Personal."
Meanwhile, Stranleigh lost no time in setting his machinery in motion, and in this was ably assisted by his secretary, Blake, who proved an indefatigable worker, and had the advantage of former experience, first as a journalist, and second as secretary to a Member of Parliament.
Stranleigh brought a fresh and original mind to bear upon politics. He realised that instant action was necessary if he meant to deliver a number of speeches before the issuing of the writs. Even with the help of Blake he could not spare the precious hours necessary to inform himself on the situation, and to write out speeches, so he hit upon the unique idea of buying his discourses ready-made. Blake undertook the task with never a doubt that he would be successful. Professional orators are notoriously short of money. The seasons when they can reap gold are few and far between, so Blake, having had dealings with the tribe in the days of his parliamentary secretaryship, assured Stranleigh that no difficulty would be met, and that he would keep his lordship's name out of the deal.
"I'll buy the speeches for myself," he said, "just as I would purchase a column article on a current subject for a daily paper. I'll pay cash to the author, and make him sign over the copyright to me."
He hired a taxicab by the day, and called personally on all the stump speakers for the Government side then in London. He could not have chosen a better time for the purchase of eloquence, and the gratified orators themselves offered every assistance, presenting him with addresses which otherwise he would have found trouble in obtaining. Many noted speech-makers had come up from the Midlands, from the North of England, and from Scotland, to receive at headquarters their final instructions for the fray, and the energetic Blake raked them in. Several of these would not accept ready money, but insisted on cheques, which they wished to send home.
Blake, wise in his generation, would not sign cheques, so a compromise was made with money orders. He returned to Stranleigh House that night a very tired man, but there were twenty-one speeches in his possession, together with receipts making over the copyright to the young secretary. If well begun was half-done, Stranleigh's political career had opened most auspiciously, but the phrase "half-done" has more than one meaning, as Stranleigh was to learn next morning.
Ever since Corbitt's letter came into the hands of those responsible for the anti-peer campaign, Lord Stranleigh, his capable secretary, and even the dignified Ponderby, his lordship's valet, had been under strict espionage. The moment Blake developed his plan to the first man, that man, after listening and catching the drift of the scheme, apparently aided the secretary by supplying the addresses of numerous orators, but after Blake's departure there was quick work on the telephone. Headquarters was informed, and from there went out instructions to the whole list of those likely to be called on by Stranleigh's agents.
Next morning the anti-peer newspapers spread the news of the "vile plot," as they called it, over their pages and over Britain. Sign-board headlines, done in the biggest type by the blackest ink, blazoned the conspiracy of money to all the world. The head-quarters' staff of the anti-peer party completely misapprehended Stranleigh's intention. They never guessed that he purposed to deliver one or other of the speeches, but credited him with a foolhardy attempt to create an anti-peer corner in eloquence by purchasing from the speakers copyright in their lectures. The true villainy of the intrigue was made manifest when the newspapers explained the drastic nature of the Copyright Act.
If any public man who had sold the copyright in a speech used even a single sentence of that speech while addressing an audience, he was liable to prosecution. This practically sealed the mouths of twenty-one speakers, and so forth, and so forth. The articles were lavishly illustrated by snapshots showing Blake on his hurried taxicab tour; his getting out at one man's residence after another, and his final arrival at Stranleigh House with the loot. Pictures of the post-office orders were given, together with some appalling portraits of Lord Stranleigh himself, who, as reproduced by a rapid printing press, seemed capable of any scoundrelism.
For a week the controversy raged, and Stranleigh endured the experience of being called a knave by one half of the British Press, and a fool by the other half. Toward the end of the week it was evident that a new issue had arisen in British politics, namely, that when the Lords were done with, the millionaires would have to be taken in hand. The poor, dear, innocent British public was in danger of being corrupted by a multi-millionaire like Stranleigh.
Commercial virtue on the rampage is a potent force in Great Britain. Publicly no man said a word in favour of Stranleigh; privately, many wished they had had a hand in his gold bag while it was being held open.
Blake, as an old pressman, wrote half a dozen letters in explanation, intended for publication, but Stranleigh refused to sign them, or allow them to be sent out.
"Don't you know a flood when you meet it?" he asked his secretary. "This is no 'Come-in-out-of-the-wet' shower. Any explanation I could send out would be discredited, and besides, I don't care a rap what people think of me. I have entered politics on a matter of principle. I'll do the best I can without flinching, and let the heathen howl.
"So, Blake, set out at once, and engage the biggest hall you can get hold of: the Crystal Palace, Albert Hall, Olympia, or anything that happens to be vacant next week. The writs may be out any day, and there's no time to lose. I'm going to deliver the best of those speeches, and I will tell the audience who wrote it, what I paid for it, and why. I'll tell them I want both cash and credit to go to the right man. Announce by big advertisements in the papers on both sides of politics that the Earl of Stranleigh, at such a hall, and at such an hour, will address the public on the present political crisis."
Blake, who knew more than Stranleigh about political gatherings, protested against this plan, and the moment it became public all Stranleigh's friends wrote, telegraphed, telephoned, and endeavoured to see him and convince him of his folly, but without avail. No one would consent to be chairman, nor even to sit on the platform with him, so the chairs were cleared away, and the packed audience, just on the hour of eight, saw appear before them a well-set-up, good-natured looking young man, arrayed most becomingly in a fashionable evening suit.
At first there was a Homeric burst of laughter, and then a roar, as if all the African animals Roosevelt had met gave simultaneous voice. Stranleigh stood there smiling, waiting for the hubbub to cease, but it grew louder and louder. Had the young nobleman been better versed in testing the temper of a public meeting, he would have recognised the ominous signs which indicated there was soon to be a tremendous row. His cool demeanour seemed to infuriate the huge audience, and most uncomplimentary epithets were hurled at him from all sides. Behind Stranleigh appeared a police officer, who was greeted with a roar of defiance.
"You must come with me," the officer shouted in his ear. "You can't get in a word to-night. They're going to rush the platform presently, and then we may have difficulty in saving you. Come along."
"Let them rush," replied Stranleigh. "If they won't listen, this is no country of free speech."
"Come along," insisted the officer. "There is no time for argument."
"Do you arrest me?"
"Certainly not."
"Then get off this platform. It belongs to me to-night."
The policeman disappeared, then, with an overwhelming tornado of sound, the mob surged toward the stage, rather impeded by its own compactness. The first to reach the front was a stalwart, bullet-headed, thick-necked ruffian, with hair as closely cropped as that of a convict. Placing two enormous hands on the edge of the platform he sprang up in front of Stranleigh, but before his equilibrium was complete, Stranleigh planted a well-directed blow square between the eyes, and the rioter, flinging up his hands, fell backwards with a crash on his followers. The sharp report of the impact cut the turmoil like a bullet, and was followed by dense silence.
"Send me up another," shouted Stranleigh.
"You didn't give him a chance," retorted one of the crowd.
"What chance have I," cried Stranleigh, "against five thousand roughs, each one so cowardly that he daren't come alone? I've always understood there was fair play among the lower orders. Send me up your best man if you dare."
The growl of hatred began again, but the great close-cropped bullet-head on the thick neck became visible above the platform.
"A clean pat like that," bellowed the prize-fighter, "hurts no man. It was straight from the shoulder, too. What his lordship says is right. You're giving him no sporting odds!" Then, turning his back on the now subdued audience, he said in a most respectful voice to Stranleigh:
"Will you let me get my feet on them boards?"
"Of course" cried the young man. "Give me your hand."
The pugilist, evidently a bit dazed, in spite of his brave words, held up his hand. Stranleigh grasped it, with a powerful pull hoisting him on the platform, then, without releasing his hand, he shook it cordially.
"Pleased to meet an honourable opponent," he said.
"Same to you, my lud," and there arose a hearty cheer with no venom in it, succeeded by quick silence, all eyes intent on the stage. The pugilist threw off coat and waistcoat, and displayed himself in a woollen shirt, a leathern belt, and trousers.
"Going to strip, my lud?"
"No."
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
Stranleigh got in the first blow, and, quickly following it, the second. The other shook his head, as if a fly tormented him. Again his lordship tried to get in two strokes, but they were warded off. His opponent was measuring him.
Stranleigh had often met and defeated brute strength, but now he realised that planted so sturdily before him was brute strength augmented by great skill. Nevertheless, he delivered a terrible blow above the heart that caused his opponent to gasp and give ground.
The young earl followed up his advantage with a relaxation of his customary caution, expecting to get in another blow before the rally, but the pugilist flung himself upon him. Stranleigh's feet rose from the platform, and then he fell full length on his back and lay motionless.
A wild yell from the audience was quickly checked by the upraised hand of the standing combatant. He seemed to exercise a sort of hypnotic influence over the mob, as he enunciated, very slowly:
"One—two—three—four—five—" Stranleigh's prone head moved from one side to the other, "six—seven" With a long drawn-out sigh the prostrate man painfully rose to a sitting posture, and then, uncertainly, to his feet. A touch would have sent him over again.
"Had enough, my lud?"
"What did you say?"
"Had enough?"
The younger man smiled.
"Why, no." He pronounced his words with a sort of precise selection as if not quite sure of them. "Why, no; I take it we are just beginning."
"Good man! You don't mind if I fan you a bit?" but there was to be no fanning. With inexplicable suddenness Stranleigh, whose dress coat was split down the back, found himself surrounded by a dozen policemen.
"Sorry, my lord," said the officer, "but this time I must arrest you."
The storm of rage rising from that audience was unlike anything Stranleigh had yet heard. The police attempted to hustle their prisoner away, but the pugilist shouted:
"There's no danger!"
"Stay where you are," he roared to the crowd, "and give a cheer for his ludship!" Then he thrust his way among the police, and grasped Stranleigh's hand.
"Pleased to have met you, my lud," he said, in the midst of the cheering. "Do you want me, too?" he asked the officer, who growled:
"Oh, we know where to find you!" and then Stranleigh disappeared from the political arena.
Very few of the British newspapers had a good word to say for Lord Stranleigh next morning, or even an excuse to offer for his conduct. The anti-peer journals were extremely bitter. Was this lunatic to be left longer at liberty merely because he was rich and possessed a title? First, he had endeavoured, with the weight of money, to corrupt those pure angels of light, the speech-making politicians. Finding that impossible, he provoked a public display of brutality such as had not been seen in peace-loving England since the contest between Heenan and Sayers. They demanded that a stern example should be made of the brawler.
But, of course, everyone knew that no example would be made. The law is very lenient towards election rows. Were it otherwise the Courts would be kept busy for a year following an appeal to the people. Two days after Stranleigh's pugilistic contribution to the conduct of the Empire the writs were issued for the General Election, and all well-wishers of the young nobleman breathed a sigh of deep relief. He was now prohibited by law from taking any part in the approaching struggle.
Yet so democratic was his lordship, and so anxious that the Cause of the People should prevail, that he incurred the risk of a third interference, which shall be but briefly described. After the knock-out blow he had received, and his subsequent release on bail, our amateur politician, under the advice of his doctor, took a rest cure. It was the physician's hope that he would be able to keep Stranleigh in bed during the fortnight that the election lasted.
It is always unsafe to prophesy what Demos will do, and the polling of the first three days went decidedly against the Government, giving ominous signs of a landslide; signs the more disquieting because the Government itself had the choice of the constituencies contested, and naturally selected those supposed to be most favourable to the cause it represented.
On the first day Stranleigh shook off his doctor; on the second he made certain financial arrangements; on the third, carrying a small handbag which he never allowed out of his possession, he entered his most powerful motor-car. With his favourite chauffeur in front, and Blake beside him in the back seat, he made for a manufacturing town in the north, where a prominent and plain-spoken member of the Cabinet was to hold forth that night on the political situation, in the largest hall the manufacturing town contained.
In the district surrounding this hall the streets were packed, and there was much difficulty in making progress with the automobile. In addition, the crowd was palpably in an ugly temper. Getting as near as possible to the stage entrance of the building, Stranleigh and Blake left the car, the former carrying his small handbag. At the door they were stopped, but the doorkeepers accepted Stranleigh's card, and sent it in to the committee-room. It was promptly brought back by someone evidently in authority.
Which of you is Lord Stranleigh?" he asked.
"I am," answered the bearer of that title.
The name passed from man to man, running over the menacing mob like a zig-zag flash of electricity.
"The right honourable gentleman refuses to see you, and personally I advise you to get away from here as speedily as you can. In the first place, you have no right to meddle with a political meeting, and in the second place, our people here are less patient, gentle, and lamb-like than was your audience in London."
"Thank you for the warning," said Stranleigh. "I'll go away at once if you will take this bag to the Minister, ask him to open it in the privacy of his own room, examine the documents it contains, and if he thinks they are of any use to him in this contest, to deal with them as he sees fit."
"What you suggest is impossible, my lord. The Minister declined to have any dealings whatever with you."
"Bash him!" roared the crowd, as the official disappeared, and bash him they did. The police were unable to save him on this occasion, but two of them dragged his senseless body into the motorcar, while others of the force kept back the throng as best they could. All the time Stranleigh's right 
"'I feel,' said Stranleigh weakly, 'as if I had been sand-bagged.'"
Lord Stranleigh, Philanthropist] [Page 129
The nurses who attended Stranleigh listened to his ravings about the Will of the People, which he seemed anxious should prevail, also about a million pounds in Bank of England notes that rested somewhere in a handbag.
One afternoon he came to his senses, and saw Blake standing beside his bed.
"Hello, Blake!" he said feebly, "how goes the election?"
"Oh, entirely to your satisfaction!" but Blake did not think it necessary to tell him that the contest had ended more than a week before.
"There was a little handbag, Blake"
"That's all right," interrupted the secretary. "Its contents are in the Bank of England, and I hold the receipt. Now, you mustn't ask any more questions. How do you feel?"
"I feel," said Stranleigh weakly, as if I had been sand-bagged."