Stanley Lake was not a man to let the grass grow under his feet when an
object was to be gained. It was with a sure prescience that Mark Wylder's
letter had inferred that Stanley Lake would aspire to the representation
either of the county or of the borough of Dollington. His mind was
already full of these projects.

Electioneering schemes are conducted, particularly at their initiation,
like conspiracies--in fact, they _are_ conspiracies, and therefore there
was nothing remarkable in the intense caution with which Stanley Lake set
about his. He was not yet 'feeling his way.' He was only preparing to
feel his way.

All the data, except the muster-roll of electors, were _in nubibus_--who
would retire--who would step forward, as yet altogether in the region of
conjecture. There are men to whom the business of elections--a life of
secrecy, excitement, speculation, and combat--has all but irresistible
charms; and Tom Wealdon, the Town Clerk, was such a spirit.

A bold, frank, good-humoured fellow--he played at elections as he would
at cricket. Every faculty of eye, hand, and thought--his whole heart and
soul in the game. But no ill-will--no malevolence in victory--no sourness
in defeat. A successful _coup_ made Tom Wealdon split with laughing. A
ridiculous failure amused him nearly as much. He celebrated his last
great defeat with a pic-nic in the romantic scenery of Nolton, where he
and his comrades in disaster had a roaring evening, and no end of 'chaff'
When he and Jos. Larkin carried the last close contest at Dollington, by
a majority of two, he kicked the crown out of the grave attorney's
chimney-pot, and flung his own wide-awake into the river. He did not show
much; his official station precluded prominence. He kept in the