IN THE FIGHTING-LINE 73 



the ultimate burden imposed by those remote poten- 

 tates, the Members of Parhament; dumb as the 

 farm horses that toiled on the long roads, paying the 

 piper in unresentful effort without a thought of 

 calling the tune. 



Till midnight voices at the archway of the hotel 

 debated heavily the alternate attractions set forth 

 by Mr. Smith and Colonel Jones : when brisk foot- 

 steps began to move again in the early morning sun- 

 shine, the names of the rival candidates were still 

 in the air. At seven-thirty the landlady was at my 

 door, with a beaming face and the Standard, the 

 latter, obviously, already read to the bone. In those 

 days the Standard had no " Woman's Page "; Suffra- 

 gettes, militant or otherwise, were as impossible as 

 aeroplanes, and Suffragists crept about like mice, 

 within walls, only occasionally showing their noses in 

 a sympathetic drawing-room. Not, however, like the 

 way of the mouse within the wall was the path 

 appointed for the female canvasser by the political 

 organisation to which she belonged, and presently, 

 impelled by the hated voice of conscience, weighed 

 down by anxieties about the coming day, we went 

 forth again into the arena, as cowardly gladiators 

 as ever drew sword. 



As we lifted the dazzling brass knocker of a semi- 

 detached villa, we felt that it was the flinging away 

 of the scabbard. Was our memory quite clear as to 

 the numbers of the Irish electorate ? Had we for- 

 gotten the figures of the latest outrage in taxation? 

 Was — ^liere the door opened — was Mr. Brown at 

 home ? 



Mr. Brown, in person, replied that he was, with an 

 agitation perhaps traceable to the fact that his feet 

 were simply attired in striped socks. He hurriedly 

 and noiselessly led the way to the dining-room; we 



