in deep thought, and during this passive period he
distinctly heard his country's call! The call came in
these words: "If Tom Snider can do it, why not me?"

The idea took hold of him. He began to brush his hair
artfully over the bald spot. He made strange faces at
his mirror, wondering which side of his face would be
the best to have photographed for his handbills. He saw
himself like Cincinnatus of old called from the plough
to the Senate, but he told himself there could not have
been as good a thing in it then as there is now, or
Cincinnatus would not have come back to the steers.

Mr. Ducker's social qualities developed amazingly. He
courted his neighbours assiduously, sending presents from
his garden, stopping to have protracted conversations
with men whom he had known but slightly before. Every
man whose name was on the voters' list began to have a
new significance for him.

There was one man whom he feared--that was Evans, editor
of the Conservative paper. Sometimes when his fancy
painted for him a gay and alluring picture of carrying
"the proud old Conservative banner that has suffered
defeat, but, thank God! never disgrace in the face of
the foe" (quotation from speech Mr. Ducker had prepared),
sometimes he would in the midst of the most glowing and
glorious passages inadvertently think of Evans, and it
gave him goose-flesh. Mr. Ducker had lived in and around
Millford for some time. So had Evans, and Evans had a