That's why I want to know when the poll will
be declared."
Here the narrator rang off. A wild stampede and a frantic sending-off of
messengers took place at the other end of the telephone. Nearly all the
workers on either side had disappeared to their various club-rooms and
public-house bars to await the declaration of the poll, but enough local
information could be secured to determine the scene of Hyacinth's
exploit. Mr. John Ball had a stable yard down near the Crawleigh Road,
up a short lane, and his sow was known to have a litter of ten young
ones. Thither went in headlong haste both the candidates, Hyacinth's
mother, his aunt (Mrs. Panstreppon), and two or three hurriedly-summoned
friends. The two Nubian donkeys, contentedly munching at bundles of hay,
met their gaze as they entered the yard. The hoarse savage grunting of
an enraged animal and the shriller note of thirteen young voices, three
of them human, guided them to the stye, in the outer yard of which a huge
Yorkshire sow kept up a ceaseless raging patrol before a closed door.
Reclining on the broad ledge of an open window, from which point of
vantage he could reach down and shoot the bolt of the door, was Hyacinth,
his blue sailor-suit somewhat the worse of wear, and his angel smile
exchanged for a look of demoniacal determination.
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