Promise 'em a land bill. Promise them the
food on their tables at a bit less. Stick something in about a reduction
in the price of beer. I've seen the other chap's address and it's a
corker! Mostly lies, but thundering good ones. You let me touch yours up a
bit."
"Where have you been?" I asked, a strange misgiving stealing into my mind.
"Have you been talking to Mr. Ansell like this?"
"Ansell? No! Who's he?" Mr. Bundercombe inquired.
"My agent."
Mr. Bundercombe shook his head.
"Chap I palled up with was called Harrison."
I groaned.
"You've been to the other fellow's agent," I told him; "the agent for the
Radical candidate."
Mr. Bundercombe whistled.
"You don't say!" he murmured. "Well, I'll tell you what it is, Paul, there
are no flies on that chap! He's a real nippy little worker--that's what he
is! If you take my advice," he went on persuasively, "you'll swap. We'll
make it worth his while to come over. I've seen your Mr. Ansell--if that's
his name. I saw the name on a brass plate and I saw him come out of his
office--stiff, starched sort of chap, with a thin face and gray side
whiskers!"
"That's the man," I admitted. "He and his father before him, and his
grandfather, have been solicitors to my people for I don't know how many
years!"
"He looked it!" Mr.
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