"MR. GRIFFENBOTTOM."
On Monday, the 16th of October, Sir Thomas Underwood went down
to Percycross, and the first information given him was that Mr.
Westmacott and Ontario Moggs had arrived on the Saturday, and were
already at work. Mr. Griffenbottom was expected early on the Tuesday.
"They've stolen a march on us, then," said Sir Thomas to Mr. Trigger.
"Give 'em rope enough, and they'll hang themselves," replied the
managing agent. "There was Moggs spouting to them on his own hook on
Saturday night, and Westmacott's chaps are ready to eat him. And he
wanted to be doing it yesterday, Sunday; only some of them got a hold
of him and wouldn't let him loose. Moggs is a great card for us, Sir
Thomas. There's nothing like one of them spouting fellows to overset
the coach."
"Mr. Westmacott is fond of that too," said Sir Thomas.
"He understands. He's used to it. He does it in the proper place.
Westmacott wasn't a bad member for the place;--wasn't perhaps quite
free enough with his money, but Westmacott was very decent." Sir
Thomas could not help feeling that Trigger spoke of it as though he
wished that the two old members might be returned. Ah, well! had
it been possible, Mr. Trigger would have wished it. Mr. Trigger
understood the borough, knew well the rocks before them, and
would have wished it,--although he had been so imperative with Mr.
Griffenbottom as to the second conservative candidate. And now Mr.
Griffenbottom had sent them a man who would throw all the fat in the
fire by talking of purity of election! "And Moggs has been making a
fool of himself in another direction," said Trigger, thinking that
no opportunity for giving a valuable hint should be lost. "He's been
telling the working men already that they'll be scoundrels and knaves
if they take so much as a glass of beer without paying for it."
"Scoundrel is a strong word," said Sir Thomas, "but I like him for
that."
"Percycross won't like him. Men would rather have all that left to
their own feelings. They who want beer or money certainly won't thank
him; and they who don't want it don't like to be suspected."
"Every one will take it as addressed to his neighbour and not to
himself."
"We are very fond of our neighbours here, Sir Thomas, and that kind
of thing won't go down." This was on the evening of the candidate's
arrival, and the conversation was going on absolutely while Sir
Thomas was eating his dinner. He had asked Mr. Trigger to join him,
and Mr. Trigger had faintly alleged that he had dined at three; but
he soon so far changed his mind as to be able to express an opinion
that he could "pick a bit," and he did pick a bit. After which he
drank the best part of a bottle of port,--having assured Sir Thomas
that the port at the Percy Standard was a sort of wine that one
didn't get every day. And as he drank his port, he continued to pour
in lessons of wisdom. Sir Thomas employed his mind the while in
wondering when Mr. Trigger would go away, and forecasting whether
Mr. Trigger would desire to drink port wine at the Percy Standard
every evening during the process of canvassing. About nine o'clock
the waiter announced that a few gentlemen below desired to see Sir
Thomas. "Our friends," said Mr. Trigger. "Just put chairs, and bring
a couple of bottles of port, John. I'm glad they're come, Sir Thomas,
because it shows that they mean to take to you." Up they were shown,
Messrs. Spiveycomb, Spicer, Pile, Roodylands,--the bootmaker who
has not yet been named,--Pabsby, and seven or eight others. Sir
Thomas shook hands with them all. He observed that Mr. Trigger was
especially cordial in his treatment of Spicer, the mustard-maker,--as
to whose defection he had been so fearful in consequence of certain
power which Mr. Westmacott might have in the wholesale disposal of
mustard. "I hope you find yourself better," said Mr. Pile, opening
the conversation. Sir Thomas assured his new friend that he was
pretty well. "'Cause you seemed rayther down on your luck when you
was here before," said Mr. Pile.
"No need for that," said Spicer, the man of mustard. "Is there,
Trigger?" Trigger sat a little apart, with one bottle of port wine at
his elbow, and took no part in the conversation. He was aware that
his opportunities were so great that the outside supporters ought to
have their time. "Any objection to this, Sir Thomas?" he said, taking
a cigar-case out of his pocket. Sir Thomas, who hated tobacco, of
course gave permission. Trigger rang the bell, ordered cigars for
the party, and then sat apart with his port wine. In ten minutes Sir
Thomas hardly knew where he was, so dense was the cloud of smoke.
"Sir Thomas," began Mr. Pabsby,--"if I could only clearly see my
way--"
"You'll see it clear enough before nomination-day," said Mr. Pile.
"Any ways, after election," said a conservative grocer. Both these
gentlemen belonged to the Established Church and delighted in
snubbing Mr. Pabsby. Indeed, Mr. Pabsby had no business at this
meeting, and so he had been told very plainly by one or two as he had
joined them in the street. He explained, however, that his friend Sir
Thomas had come to him the very first person in Percycross, and he
carried his point in joining the party. But he was a mild man, and
when he was interrupted he merely bided another opportunity.
"I hope, Sir Thomas, your mind is made up to do something for our
trade," said Mr. Roodylands.
"What's the matter with your trade?" said Spiveycomb, the
paper-maker.
"Well;--we ain't got no jobs in it;--that's the matter," said Mr.
Pile.
"As for jobs, what's the odds?" said a big and burly loud-mouthed
tanner. "All on us likes a good thing when it comes in our way. Stow
that, and don't let's be told about jobs. Sir Thomas, here's your
health, and I wish you at the top of the poll,--that is, next to
Mr. Griffenbottom." Then they all drank to Sir Thomas's health, Mr.
Pabsby filling himself a bumper for the occasion.
It was eleven before they went away, at which time Mr. Pabsby had
three times got as far as a declaration of his wish to see things
clearly. Further than this he could not get; but still he went away
in perfect good humour. He would have another opportunity, as he took
occasion to whisper when he shook hands with the candidate. Trigger
stayed even yet for half-an-hour. "Don't waste your time on that
fellow, Pabsby," he said. "No, I won't," said Sir Thomas. "And be
very civil to old Pile." "He doesn't seem disposed to return the
compliment," said Sir Thomas. "But he doesn't want your interest
in the borough," said Trigger, with the air of a man who had great
truths to teach. "In electioneering, Sir Thomas, it's mostly the same
as in other matters. Nothing's to be had for nothing. If you were a
retail seller of boots from Manchester old Pile would be civil enough
to you. You may snub Spicer as much as you please, because he'll
expect to get something out of you." "He'll be very much deceived,"
said Sir Thomas. "I'm not so sure of that," said Trigger;--"Spicer
knows what he's about pretty well." Then, at last, Mr. Trigger went,
assuring Sir Thomas most enthusiastically that he would be with him
before nine the next morning.
Many distressing thoughts took possession of Sir Thomas as he lay in
bed. He had made up his mind that he would in no way break the law,
and he didn't know whether he had not broken it already by giving
these people tobacco and wine. And yet it would have been impossible
for him to have refused Mr. Trigger permission to order the supply.
Even for the sake of the seat,--even for the sake of his reputation,
which was so much dearer to him than the seat,--he could not have
bidden guests, who had come to him in his own room, to go elsewhere
if they required wine. It was a thing not to be done, and yet, for
aught he knew, Mr. Trigger might continue to order food and wine, and
beer and tobacco, to be supplied ad libitum, and whenever he chose.
How was he to put an end to it, otherwise than by throwing up the
game, and going back to London? That now would be gross ill-usage to
the Conservatives of Percycross, who by such a step would be left in
the lurch without a candidate. And then was it to be expected that he
should live for a week with Mr. Trigger, with no other relief than
that which would be afforded by Messrs. Pile, Spiveycomb, and Co.
Everything about him was reeking of tobacco. And then, when he sat
down to breakfast at nine o'clock there would be Mr. Trigger!
The next morning he was out of bed at seven, and ordered his
breakfast at eight sharp. He would steal a march on Trigger. He went
out into the sitting-room, and there was Trigger already seated
in the arm-chair, studying the list of the voters of Percycross!
Heavens, what a man! "I thought I'd look in early, and they told me
you were coming out or I'd have just stepped into your room." Into
his very bed-room! Sir Thomas shuddered as he heard the proposition.
"We've a telegram from Griffenbottom," continued Trigger, "and he
won't be here till noon. We can't begin till he comes."
"Ah;--then I can just write a few letters," said Sir Thomas.
"I wouldn't mind letters now if I was you. If you don't mind, we'll
go and look up the parsons. There are four or five of 'em, and they
like to be seen;--not in the way of canvassing. They're all right, of
course. And there's two of 'em won't leave a stone unturned in the
outside hamlets. But they like to be seen, and their wives like it."
Whereupon Mr. Trigger ordered breakfast,--and eat it. Sir Thomas
reminded himself that a fortnight was after all but a short duration
of time. He might live through a fortnight,--probably,--and then when
Mr. Griffenbottom came it would be shared between two.
At noon he returned to the Percy Standard, very tired, there to await
the coming of Mr. Griffenbottom. Mr. Griffenbottom didn't come till
three, and then bustled up into the sitting-room, which Sir Thomas
had thought was his own, as though all Percycross belonged to
him. During the last three hours supporters had been in and out
continually, and Mr. Pabsby had made an ineffectual attempt or two to
catch Sir Thomas alone. Trigger had been going up and down between
the Standard and the station. Various men, friends and supporters
of Griffenbottom and Underwood, had been brought to him. Who were
paid agents, who were wealthy townsmen, who were canvassers and
messengers, he did not know. There were bottles on the sideboard the
whole time. Sir Thomas, in a speculative manner, endeavouring to
realise to himself the individuality of this and that stranger, could
only conceive that they who helped themselves were wealthy townsmen,
and that they who waited till they were asked by others were paid
canvassers and agents. But he knew nothing, and could only wish
himself back in Southampton Buildings.
At last Mr. Griffenbottom, followed by a cloud of supporters, bustled
into the room. Trigger at once introduced the two candidates. "Very
glad to meet you," said Griffenbottom. "So we're going to fight
this little battle together. I remember you in the House, you know,
and I dare say you remember me. I'm used to this kind of thing. I
suppose you ain't. Well, Trigger, how are things looking? I suppose
we'd better begin down Pump Lane. I know my way about the place,
Honeywood, as well as if it was my bed-room. And so I ought,
Trigger."
"I suppose you've seen the inside of pretty nearly every house in
Percycross," said Trigger.
"There's some I don't want to see the inside of any more. I can tell
you that. How are these new householders going to vote?"
"Betwixt and between, Mr. Griffenbottom."
"I never thought we should find much difference. It don't matter what
rent a man pays, but what he does. I could tell you how nineteen out
of twenty men here would vote, if you'd tell me what they did, and
who they were. What's to be done about talking to 'em?"
"To-morrow night we're to be in the Town Hall, Mr. Griffenbottom, and
Thursday an open-air meeting, with a balcony in the market-place."
"All right. Come along. Are you good at spinning yarns to them,
Honeywood?"
"I don't like it, if you mean that," said Sir Thomas.
"It's better than canvassing. By George, anything is better than
that. Come along. We may get Pump Lane, and Petticoat Yard, and
those back alleys done before dinner. You've got cards, of course,
Trigger." And the old, accustomed electioneerer led the way out to
his work.
Mr. Griffenbottom was a heavy hale man, over sixty, somewhat inclined
to be corpulent, with a red face, and a look of assured impudence
about him which nothing could quell or diminish. The kind of
life which he had led was one to which impudence was essentially
necessary. He had done nothing for the world to justify him in
assuming the airs of a great man,--but still he could assume them,
and many believed in him. He could boast neither birth, nor talent,
nor wit,--nor, indeed, wealth in the ordinary sense of the word.
Though he had worked hard all his life at the business to which he
belonged, he was a poorer man now than he had been thirty years ago.
It had all gone in procuring him a seat in Parliament. And he had so
much sense that he never complained. He had known what it was that he
wanted, and what it was that he must pay for it. He had paid for it,
and had got it, and was, in his fashion, contented. If he could only
have continued to have it without paying for it again, how great
would have been the blessing! But he was a man who knew that such
blessings were not to be expected. After the first feeling of disgust
was over on the receipt of Trigger's letter, he put his collar to
the work again, and was prepared to draw his purse,--intending,
of course, that the new candidate should bear as much as possible
of this drain. He knew well that there was a prospect before him
of abject misery;--for life without Parliament would be such to
him. There would be no salt left for him in the earth if he was
ousted. And yet no man could say why he should have cared to sit in
Parliament. He rarely spoke, and when he did no one listened to him.
He was anxious for no political measures. He was a favourite with no
section of a party. He spent all his evenings at the House, but it
can hardly be imagined that those evenings were pleasantly spent.
But he rubbed his shoulders against the shoulders of great men, and
occasionally stood upon their staircases. At any rate, such as was
the life, it was his life; and he had no time left to choose another.
He considered himself on this occasion pretty nearly sure to be
elected. He knew the borough and was sure. But then there was that
accursed system of petitioning, which according to his idea was
un-English, ungentlemanlike, and unpatriotic--"A stand-up fight, and
if you're licked--take it." That was his idea of what an election
should be.
Sir Thomas, who only just remembered the appearance of the man in the
House, at once took an extravagant dislike to him. It was abominable
to him to be called Underwood by a man who did not know him. It was
nauseous to him to be forced into close relations with a man who
seemed to him to be rough and ill-mannered. And, judging from what
he saw, he gave his colleague credit for no good qualities. Now Mr.
Griffenbottom had good qualities. He was possessed of pluck. He was
in the main good-natured. And though he could resent an offence with
ferocity, he could forgive an offence with ease. "Hit him hard, and
then have an end of it!" That was Mr. Griffenbottom's mode of dealing
with the offenders and the offences with which he came in contact.
In every house they entered Griffenbottom was at home, and Sir
Thomas was a stranger of whom the inmates had barely heard the name.
Griffenbottom was very good at canvassing the poorer classes. He said
not a word to them about politics, but asked them all whether they
didn't dislike that fellow Gladstone, who was one thing one day
and another thing another day. "By G----, nobody knows what he is,"
swore Mr. Griffenbottom over and over again. The women mostly said
that they didn't know, but they liked the blue. "Blues allays was
gallanter nor the yellow," said one of 'em. They who expressed an
opinion at all hoped that their husbands would vote for him, "as 'd
do most for 'em." "The big loaf;--that's what we want," said one
mother of many children, taking Sir Thomas by the hand. There were
some who took advantage of the occasion to pour out their tales of
daily griefs into the ears of their visitors. To these Griffenbottom
was rather short and hard. "What we want, my dear, is your husband's
vote and interest. We'll hear all the rest another time." Sir Thomas
would have lingered and listened; but Griffenbottom knew that 1,400
voters had to be visited in ten days, and work as they would they
could not see 140 a day. Trigger explained it all to Sir Thomas. "You
can't work above seven hours, and you can't do twenty an hour. And
much of the ground you must do twice over. If you stay to talk to
them you might as well be in London. Mr. Griffenbottom understands it
so well, you'd better keep your eye on him." There could be no object
in the world on which Sir Thomas was less desirous of keeping his
eye.
[Illustration: "The big loaf;--that's what we want," said one
mother of many children, taking Sir Thomas by the hand.]
The men, who were much more difficult to find than the women, had
generally less to say for themselves. Most of them understood at once
what was wanted, and promised. For it must be understood that on this
their first day the conservative brigade was moving among its firm
friends. In Petticoat Yard lived paper-makers in the employment of
Mr. Spiveycomb, and in Pump Lane the majority of the inhabitants were
employed by Mr. Spicer, of the mustard works. The manufactories of
both these men were visited, and there the voters were booked much
quicker than at the rate of twenty an hour. Here and there a man
would hold some peculiar opinion of his own. The Permissive Bill was
asked for by an energetic teetotaller; and others, even in these
Tory quarters, suggested the ballot. But they all,--or nearly all
of them,--promised their votes. Now and again some sturdy fellow,
seeming to be half ashamed of himself in opposing all those around
him, would say shortly that he meant to vote for Moggs, and pass on.
"You do,--do you?" Sir Thomas heard Mr. Spicer say to one such man.
"Yes, I does," said the man. Sir Thomas heard no more, but he felt
how perilous was the position on which a candidate stood under the
present law.
As regarded Sir Thomas himself, he felt, as the evening was coming
on, that he had hardly done his share of the work. Mr. Griffenbottom
had canvassed, and he had walked behind. Every now and then he had
attempted a little conversation, but in that he had been immediately
pulled up by the conscientious and energetic Mr. Trigger. As for
asking for votes, he hardly knew, when he had been carried back
into the main street through a labyrinth of alleys at the back of
Petticoat Yard, whether he had asked any man for his vote or not.
With the booking of the votes he had, of course, nothing to do. There
were three men with books;--and three other men to open the doors,
show the way, and make suggestions on the expediency of going hither
or thither. Sir Thomas would always have been last in the procession,
had there not been one silent, civil person, whose duty it seemed to
be to bring up the rear. If ever Sir Thomas lingered behind to speak
to a poor woman, there was this silent, civil person lingering too.
The influence of the silent, civil person was so strong that Sir
Thomas could not linger much.
As they came into the main street they encountered the opposition
party, Mr. Westmacott, Ontario Moggs, and their supporters. "I'll
introduce you," said Mr. Griffenbottom to his colleague. "Come along.
It's the thing to do." Then they met in the middle of the way. Poor
Ontario was hanging behind, but holding up his head gallantly,
and endeavouring to look as though he were equal to the occasion.
Griffenbottom and Westmacott shook hands cordially, and complained
with mutual sighs that household suffrage had made the work a deal
harder than ever. "And I'm only a week up from the gout," said
Griffenbottom. Then Sir Thomas and Westmacott were introduced, and at
last Ontario was brought forward. He bowed and attempted to make a
little speech; but nobody in one army or in the other seemed to care
much for poor Ontario. He knew that it was so, but that mattered
little to him. If he were destined to represent Percycross in
Parliament, it must be by the free votes and unbiassed political
aspirations of the honest working men of the borough. So remembering
he stood aloof, stuck his hand into his breast, and held up his
head something higher than before. Though the candidates had thus
greeted each other at this chance meeting, the other parties in the
contending armies had exhibited no courtesies.
The weariness of Sir Thomas when this first day's canvass was over
was so great that he was tempted to go to bed and ask for a bowl of
gruel. Nothing kept him from doing so but amazement at the courage
and endurance of Mr. Griffenbottom. "We could get at a few of
those chaps who were at the works, if we went out at eight," said
Griffenbottom. Trigger suggested that Mr. Griffenbottom would be
very tired. Trigger himself was perhaps tired. "Oh, tired," said
Griffenbottom; "a man has to be tired at this work." Sir Thomas
perceived that Griffenbottom was at least ten years his senior,
and that he was still almost lame from the gout. "You'll be ready,
Underwood?" said Griffenbottom. Sir Thomas felt himself bound to
undertake whatever might be thought necessary. "If we were at it
day and night, it wouldn't be too much," said Griffenbottom, as he
prepared to amuse himself with one of the poll-books till dinner
should be on the table. "Didn't we see Jacob Pucky?" asked the
energetic candidate, observing that the man's name wasn't marked. "To
be sure we did. I was speaking to him myself. He was one of those
who didn't know till the day came. We know what that means; eh,
Honeywood?" Sir Thomas wasn't quite sure that he did know; but he
presumed that it meant something dishonest. Again Mr. Trigger dined
with them, and as soon as ever their dinner was swallowed they were
out again at their work, Sir Thomas being dragged from door to door,
while Griffenbottom asked for the votes.
And this was to last yet for ten days more!