to take up his residence at his father's house, and give his undivided attention to his canvassing. It was pointed out to him that his opponent, Mr. Creswell, was always on the spot, and, quite unexpectedly, had recently shown the greatest interest in the forthcoming struggle, and was availing himself of every means in his power to ensure his success; but Tommy Bokenham refused to "bury himself at Brocksopp," as he phrased it, until it was absolutely necessary. "It is positively cruel," wrote Mr. Harrington, a clever young clerk, who had been despatched by his principals, Messrs. Potter and Fyfe, the great parliamentary agents, to report how matters were progressing in the borough, "to see how Mr. B. is cutting out the running for the other side! I've had a talk with South, the attorney, who is acting for us down here, a shrewd, sensible fellow, and he says there is every hope of our pulling through, even as we are, but that if we had only brought another kind of man to the post, our success would be a moral." Old Mr. Potter, a very rigid old gentleman residing at Clapham, and deacon of a chapel there, growled very much, both over the matter and the manner of this communication.
"What does this young man mean," he asked, peering over the paper at his partner through his double glasses, "by using this turf slang? Bring a man to the 'post!' and a 'moral' indeed!—a word I should not have expected to find in this gentleman's vocabulary." But Mr. Fyfe, who had a sneaking likeness for sport, appeased the old gentleman, and pointed out that the letter, though oddly worded, was really full of good and reliable information, and that young Harrington had executed his commission cleverly. Both partners shook their heads over this further account of their candidate's shortcomings, and decided that some immediate steps must be taken to retrieve their position. The time of election was imminent; their opponent was resident, indefatigable, and popular; and though the report from Harrington spoke of ultimate success with almost certainty, it would not do to run the smallest risk in a borough which they had pledged their credit to wrest from Tory domination.
Messrs. Potter and Fyfe were not likely men to ventilate in public any opinions which they may have held regarding the business matters on which they were employed, but the inattention of Mr. Bokenham to his duties, and the manner in which he was throwing away his chances began to be talked of at the Comet office, and the news of it even penetrated to Jack Byrne's little club. It was on the day after he had first heard of it that the old man walked up to Joyce's chambers, and on entering found his friend at home, and glad to see him. After a little desultory conversation, old Byrne began to talk of the subject with which he was filled.
"Have you heard anything lately of that man who was going to contest your old quarters, or thereabouts, for us, Walter? What's his name? Bokenham! that's it," he said.
"Oh, yes," answered Joyce, "oddly enough, they were talking of him last night at the office. I went into O'Connor's room just as Forrest, who had come down with some not very clearly defined story from the Reform, was suggesting a slashing article with the view of what he called 'rousing to action' this very young man. O'Connor pooh-poohed the notion and put Forrest off; but from what he said to me afterwards, I imagine Mr. Bokenham is scarcely the man for the emergency—a good deal too lukewarm and dilettante. They won't stand that sort of thing in Brocksopp, and it's a point with our party, and especially with me, that Brocksopp should be won."
"Especially with you," repeated the old man; "ay, ay, I mind you saying that before! That's strong reaction from the old feeling, Walter!"
"Strong, but not unnatural, I think. You, to whom I told the story when I first knew you, will remember what my feelings were towards—towards that lady. You will remember how entirely I imagined my life bound up in hers, my happiness centred on all she might say or do. You saw what happened—how she flung me aside at the very first opportunity, with scant ceremony and shallow excuses, careless what effect her treachery might have had upon me."
"It was all for the best, lad, as it turned out."
"As it turned out, yes! But how did she know that, when she did it? Had she known that it would have turned out for the worst, for the very worst, would she have stayed her hand and altered her purpose? Not she."
"I don't like to see you vindictive, boy; recollect she's a woman, and that once you were fond of her."
"I am not vindictive, as I take it; and when I think of her treatment of me, the recollection that I was fond of her is not very likely to have a softening effect. See here, old friend, in cold blood, and with due deliberation, Marian Ashurst extin-
