But for a policeman here and there, the streets were desolate.
Wherever the lamplight fell upon a wall or hoarding, it illumined
election placards, with the names of the candidates in staring
letters, and all the familiar vulgarities of party advertising.
"Welwyn-Baker and the Honour of Old England!"--"Vote for Quarrier,
the Friend of the Working Man!"--"No Jingoism!" "The Constitution
in Danger! Polterham to the Rescue!" These trumpetings to the battle
restored Glazzard's self-satisfaction; he smiled once more, and
walked on with lighter step.
Just outside the town, in a dark narrow road, he was startled by the
sudden rising of a man's figure. A voice exclaimed, in thick,
ebrious tones: "Who are you for? What's you're colour?"
"Who are _you_ for?" called out Glazzard, in return, as he walked
past.
The politician--who had seemingly been asleep in the ditch--
raised himself to his full height and waved his arms about.
"I'm a Radical!--Quarrier for ever!--Come on, one and all of you
--I'm ready: fist or argument, it's all one to me!--You and your
Welwyn-Baker--gurr! What's _he_ ever done for the people?--
that's what _I_ want to know!--Ya-oo-oo-oo! Quarrier for ever!--
Down with the aristocrats as wants to make war at the expense of the
working man! What's England coming to?--tell me that! You've no
principles, you haven't, you Tory skunks; you've not half a
principle among you.
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