Part 22 (1/2)

”This is for me.”

But now his thoughts changed. The men of Ludsey did not wait in vain that night. For Harry Rames the glamour faded off the arena. At the very moment when the bars were being withdrawn for him to enter it the exultation of battle died out of his heart. He woke to something new--the claim of the const.i.tuency. The longer he looked, the stronger the claim grew, the more loudly the silence of that throng proclaimed and shouted it. They stood under the javelins of the rain, the men who had voted for him. They emphasized their claim by their extraordinary quietude. Almost they menaced.

”A queer sight,” said a voice at his elbow.

Harry Rames turned. It was Mr. Arnall who had interrupted him.

”I shall not easily forget it,” said Rames, drawing a breath, and then with an irritable outburst he said: ”They look to Parliament for more than parliaments can do, to candidates for more than members can achieve. Each election is to open paradise for them.”

”And whose fault is that?” asked Mr. Arnall dryly.

Rames nodded.

”Ours, I suppose,” he said; and behind him in the room there was a bustle and a grating of chairs upon the floor. The votes had been sorted. The candidates and their friends gathered about the long table on the raised dais.

”They are taking yours first,” said Mr. Arnall to Harry. ”That's a good sign.”

The papers cast for Harry Rames were brought to the table in sets of fifty. They were placed crosswise, one set on the top of the first, and the third on the second, until five hundred had been counted.

Against that pile of five hundred votes a second rose. Gradually the orderly heaps of paper extended along the table's edge in front of the Mayor. There were half a dozen now. Rames's agent stood by them like a bull-dog on the chain. The half-dozen became ten, eleven, twelve. And as the twelfth heap was completed a quick movement ran among all of Rames's friends. He had polled now half the electorate of the city.

One more set of papers and he was in.

It was laid next to the others at that moment, and Rames's hands were silently grasped and shaken. But the heaping up of the votes went on.

There were three more piles to be added before the end was reached.

Eighty-four per cent of the electorate had recorded their votes. Harry Rames had won by a majority well on to two thousand. He stood there in a buzz of congratulations, with a sudden vacancy of mind and thought.

He remembered the extraordinary agility with which Mr. Redling whipped out of the room, trying to say unconcernedly:

”I'll just announce the result at once.”

He heard the storm of cheers in the street below. That patient silence was broken now in a hurricane of enthusiasm and even through it he could distinguish the words of the exultant cry:

”Rames is our man!”

He saw the Mayor return, much out of breath. He proposed the vote of thanks to the returning officers, with the usual eulogy of his opponents and depreciation of himself. But even at that moment the claim of the const.i.tuency would importunately obtrude and find acknowledgment in his words.

”You look to me very likely for more than I can do,” he said simply.

”At all events you shall have what I can.”

But the most memorable achievement that night was the reply of Mr.

Redling.

As he rose to his feet to acknowledge the vote of thanks, the man ran forward and got a fair start of the Mayor. He cried out, all one bubble of delight:

”I need hardly say, gentlemen, how utterly I rejoice at--” and then the Mayor put on a spurt and caught up the man--”at the admirable manner in which this contest has been conducted by both sides.”

But the correction deceived no one. Mr. Redling's politics were known, and so, in a general splutter of good-humored laughter, the Ludsey election came to an end.