It was reported that Mr. Welwyn-Baker had had a seizure of
some kind, and that he lay in a dangerous state at his house just
outside the town.
"It's perfectly true," affirmed Mr. Wykes. "I saw Dr. Staple on his
way there. He'll never survive it. We shall have a bye-election--
the very last thing desirable."
The Secretary was a man of intelligence features but painfully
distorted body; his right leg, permanently bent double, was
supported at the knee by metal mechanism, and his arm on the
opposite side ended at the elbow. None the less he moved with much
activity, gesticulated frequently with the normal arm, and seemed
always to be in excellent spirits. He was a Cambridge graduate, but
had never been able to make much use of his education and abilities;
having reached middle age, and finding himself without resources, he
was glad to accept this post at the Institute.
About him stood three Polterham worthies: Mr. Chown, draper, a
member of the Corporation; Mr. Vawdrey, coal-merchant; and Mr.
Murgatroyd, dentist. The draper--tall, bearded, with goggle eyes
and prominent cheek-bones--had just rushed in; as soon as Mr.
Wykes had spoken, he exclaimed in a hard, positive voice:
"It's nothing! it's nothing! I have it on the best assurance that it
was only a fall over a footstool. Muscles strained--a bruise or
two--nothing worse.
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