"If any of you come a step nearer," he shouted, "the sow will be inside
in half a jiffy."
A storm of threatening, arguing, entreating expostulation broke from the
baffled rescue party, but it made no more impression on Hyacinth than the
squealing tempest that raged within the stye.
"If Jutterly heads the poll I'm going to let the sow in. I'll teach the
blighters to win elections from us."
"He means it," said Mrs. Panstreppon; "I feared the worst when I saw that
butterscotch incident."
"It's all right, my little man," said Jutterly, with the duplicity to
which even a Colonial Secretary can sometimes stoop, "your father has
been elected by a large majority."
"Liar!" retorted Hyacinth, with the directness of speech that is not
merely excusable, but almost obligatory, in the political profession;
"the votes aren't counted yet. You won't gammon me as to the result,
either. A boy that I've palled with is going to fire a gun when the poll
is declared; two shots if we've won, one shot if we haven't."
The situation began to look critical. "Drug the sow," whispered
Hyacinth's father.
Some one went off in the motor to the nearest chemist's shop and returned
presently with two large pieces of bread, liberally dosed with narcotic.
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