Part 33 (2/2)
”My grey hairs should have protected me,” he muttered.
”You mean they should have protected Miss Flipp,” said Dawn, ”and when a man with grey hairs carries on like this the crime is twice as deadly. There was nothing about grey hairs when you used a lead comb and got yourself up to kill. I thought you didn't want to make an especial feature of them, and that's why I'm dyeing them this beautiful treacley black. They'll look bosker when I'm done.”
”Get up out of that, lest I'm tempted to do you a permanent injury,” I said, taking the broom off him.
”You can go to the stable,” said Dawn, ”and I hope you won't contaminate it. Carry has a lantern and some grease and hot water, so you can clean yourself there and put on your overcoat. Never let us hear of you on a platform spouting about moral bills again unless you say it is on account of the practical experience you've had of the need of them to save weak and foolish young women from the clutches of such as you.”
Mr p.o.r.nsch arose with difficulty while Dawn struck matches to see what he was like, and a more deplorably ludicrous spectacle never could be seen in a pantomime. The only pity of it was that it was not a punishment more frequently meted out to the sinners of his degree. He raved and stuttered how he would move in the matter, but Dawn, who had a commendable fearlessness in carrying out her undertakings, only laughed merry little peals, and told him the best way for him to move in the tar was towards the stable, and the best way to move out of it was by the aid of grease, soap, hot water, and soda. The expression of his eyes rolling and glaring amid the black was quite eerie, but eventually we reached the stable, where Carry instructed him how to clean himself, while Dawn jeered at him during the operation.
Having cleaned his face somewhat, he hid his neck and clothes in his overcoat which Carry handed, put on his hat, m.u.f.fled his face in his handkerchief, and went away, Dawn administering a parting shot.
”Now, Uncle p.o.r.nsch, dear, next time you go ogling and leering round a _decent_ girl, remember, though she may be so situated that she has to endure you, yet she feels just as we do, that is, if she is a decent girl, whose eyes have been opened to the facts of life.”
”I feel better than I have done for a long time,” she concluded, as bearing the implements used in the adventure we three, who had agreed upon secrecy, made towards the house.
”So do I,” said Carry. ”If we could only do it to all who deserve the like, it would be grand!”
TWENTY-THREE.
UNIVERSAL ADULT SUFFRAGE.
I.
Electioneering matters ripened, and so did Carry's love affair with Larry Witcom. In fact it got so far that she gave grandma notice, and announced her intention of going to a married sister's home for that process known as ”getting her things ready,” while Larry, in keeping up his end of the stick, bought a neat cottage and began furnis.h.i.+ng it in the style approved by his circle, with bright linoleum on the floors, plush chairs in the ”parler,” and china ornaments on the overmantels.
Mrs Bray, one of those very everyday folk whose G.o.d was mammon, and who naturally hung on every word issuing from a person of means while she would ignore the most inimitable witticism from an impecunious individual, began to regard the lady-help from a new point of view.
”She mightn't have done so bad for herself after all. Some of these girls knockin' about the world not havin' nothink to their name, don't baulk at things the same as you an' me would who's been used to plenty and like to pick our goods, so to speak. The way things is, Larry is as likely as most to be in a good position yet,” was a sample of the modified sentiments falling from her full red lips.
Carry was to remain at Clay's until after the election day, so that she could cast her vote for Leslie Walker.
The political candidate thus favoured scarcely allowed three days to pa.s.s without personally or by proxy stumping the Noonoon end of the electorate. His last meeting in the Citizens' Hall was jam-pack an hour before the advertised time of speaking.
The candidate on this occasion made no fresh utterances to entertain, he merely repeated the catch cries of his party; but the air was heavily charged with human electricity, and the questions and ”barracking” of the crowd were supremely diverting.
”Are you in favour of the Chows going to South Africa?” bawled one elector.
”My dear fellow, we are going to govern New South Wales--not South Africa.”
”Yes; but when we sent contingents out to fight for the Empire in the Transvaal, do you think it fair that white men should be pa.s.sed over in favour of Chows in the South African labour market?”
This question being ignored another was interjected.
”Are you in favour of the newspapers running New South Wales?”
”Certainly not!”
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