. . The audience were in no mood,
however, . . ." "Here an auditor protested warmly. It was
understood that he had some official connection with the institution
referred to by the candidate," and so on.
I hugged myself over my success. To be sure, the vague impression
derivable was that the "scene" had its origin in strong drink.
But the name of Professor John Foe nowhere appeared. Greatest
blessing of all, there was no leading article, no pithy paragraph,
even. I arose and shaved blithely. Across the stairhead I could
hear Jimmy shouting music-hall ditties--his custom in his bath.
Yes, all was right with the world.
Nothing happened that day, except that I interviewed my agent after
breakfast, worked like a nigger until nightfall, canvassing slums;
got back to the Bath Club, had a swim, dined, and returned to my
constituency for the night's public meeting. Arduous work: but what
you might call supererogatory. I could have shot my opponent
sitting, and he knew it. My rascal of an agent knew it too, but he
was an honest man in his way--and that's politics.
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