Amiable Charlatan — 13 - Mr. Bundercombe's Wink, part 2
"Well," he sighed, "I'm only on the outside edge of this thing yet.
I must give it another morning."
We had a pleasant luncheon party, at which Mr. Bundercombe was introduced to some of my supporters, with whom--as he usually did with every one--he soon made himself popular.
Eve and I then made our first little effort at canvassing.
Eve's methods differed from her father's. "I am so sorry," she said as she shook hands with a very influential but very doubtful voter of the farmer class, "but I don't know anything about English politics; so I can't talk to you about it as I'd like to.
But you know I am going to marry Mr. Walmsley and come to live here, and it would be so nice to feel that all my friends had voted for him.
If you have a few minutes to spare, Mr. Brown, would you please tell me just where you don't agree with Paul?
I should so much like to hear, because he tells me that if once you were on his side he would feel almost comfortable."
Mr. Brown, who had always met my advances with a grim taciturnity that made conversation exceedingly difficult, proceeded to dissertate upon one or two of the vexed questions of the day.
I ventured to put in a few words now and then, and after a time he invited us in to tea.
When we left he was more gracious than I had ever known him to be.
"And you must vote for Mr. Walmsley!"
Eve declared at the end of her little speech of thanks, "because I want so much to have you come and take tea with me on the Terrace at the House of Commons--and I can't unless Paul is a member, can I?"
"Bribery and corruption!"
Mr. Brown laughed.
"However, we'll see.
Certainly I have been very much pleased to hear Mr. Walmsley's views upon several matters.
When did you say the village meeting was, Mr. Walmsley?"
"Thursday night," I replied.
"Well, I'll come," he promised.
"You'll take the chair?"
I begged.
"Nothing could do me more good than that; and I feel sure, if you look at things----" I was going to be very eloquent, but Eve interrupted me.
"Let me sit next to you, please," she said, looking up at him with her large, unusually innocent eyes.
"Oh, well--if you like!"
Mr. Brown assented.
We drove off down the avenue in complete silence.
When we had turned the corner Eve gave a little sigh.
"Paul," she declared, "I don't think there's anything I've ever come across in my life that's half so much fun as electioneering!
Please take me to the next most difficult."
If Eve was a success, however, Mr. Bundercombe was to turn out a great disappointment.
He came home a little later for dinner, looking very gloomy.
"Paul," he said, as we met for a moment in the smoking room, "Paul, I've sad news for you."
"I am sorry to hear it," I replied.
"I've looked into this little matter of politics," he continued; "I've looked into it as thoroughly as I can and I can't support you.
You're on the wrong side, my boy!
I've shaken hands with Mr. Horrocks, and that's the man who'll get the votes in this constituency.
I've promised to do what I can to help him."
I was a little taken aback.
"You're not in earnest!"
I exclaimed.
"Dead earnest!"
Mr. Bundercombe regretted.
"The chap's convinced me.
I feel it's up to me to lend him a hand."
"But surely," I expostulated, "even if you cannot see your way clear to help me, there's no need for you to go over to the enemy like this!
You're not obliged to interfere in the election at all, are you?"
Mr. Bundercombe sighed.
"Matter of principle with me!"
he explained.
"I must be doing something.
I
can't canvass for you.
I'll have to look round a bit for the other chap."
"I really don't see," I began, just a little annoyed, "why you should feel called upon to interfere in an English election at all, unless it is to help a friend."
Mr. Bundercombe looked at me and solemnly winked!
"Say, that's the dinner gong!"
he announced cheerfully.
"Let's be getting in."
"But I don't quite understand----" Mr. Bundercombe repeated the wink upon a smaller scale.
I followed him into the drawing-room, still in the dark as to his exact political position.
The movements of my prospective father-in-law were, for the next few days, wrapped in a certain mystery.
He arrived home one evening, however, in a state of extreme indignation.
As usual when anything had happened to upset him he came to look for me in the library.
"My boy," he said, "of all the God-forsaken, out-of-the-world, benighted holes, this Bildborough of yours absolutely takes the cake!
For sheer ignorance --for sheer, thick-headed, bumptious, arrogant ignorance--give me your farmers!"
"What's wrong?"
I asked him.
"Wrong?
Listen!"
he exclaimed, almost dramatically.
"In this district--in this whole district, mind--there is not a single farmer who has heard of Bundercombe's Reapers!"
"I farm a bit myself," I reminded him, "and I had never heard of them."
Mr. Bundercombe went to the sideboard and mixed himself a cocktail with great care.
"Bundercombe's Reapers," he said, as soon as he had disposed of it, "are the only reapers used by live farmers in the United States of America, Canada, Australia, or any other country worth a cent!"
"That seems to hit us pretty hard," I remarked.
"Have you got an agent over here?"
"Sure!"
Mr. Bundercombe replied.
"I don't follow the sales now, so I can't tell you what he's doing; but we've an agent here--and any country that doesn't buy Bundercombe's Reapers is off the line as regards agriculture!"
"What are you going to do about it?"
I asked.
"Do!"
Mr. Bundercombe toyed with his wine glass for a moment and then set it down.
"What I have done," he announced, "is this: I have wired to my agent.
I have ordered him to ship half a dozen machines--if necessary on a special train--and I am going to give an exhibition on some land I have hired, over by Little Bildborough, the day after tomorrow."
"That's the day of the election!"
I exclaimed.
"You couldn't put it off, I suppose?"
he suggested.
"That's the day I've fixed for my exhibition at any rate.
I am giving the farmers a free lunch --slap-up affair it's going to be, I can tell you!"
"I am afraid," I answered, with a wholly wasted sarcasm, "that the affair has gone too far now for us to consider an alteration in the date."
"Well, well!
We must try not to clash," Mr. Bundercombe said magnanimously.
"How long does the voting go on?"
"From eight until eight," I told him.
Mr. Bundercombe was thoughtful.
"It's a long time to hold them!"
he murmured.
"To hold whom?"
I demanded.
Mr. Bundercombe started slightly.
"Nothing!
Nothing!
By the by, do you know a chap called Jonas--Henry Jonas, of Milton Farm?"
"I should think I do!"
I groaned.
"He's the backbone of the Opposition, the best speaker they've got and the most popular man."
Mr. Bundercombe smiled sweetly.
"Is that so!"
he observed.
"Well, well!
He is a very intelligent man.
I
trust I'll be able to persuade him that any reaper he may be using at the present moment is a jay compared to Bundercombe's--this season's model!"
"I trust you may," I answered, a trifle tartly.
"I am glad you're likely to do a little business; but you won't mind, my reminding you--will you?
-- that you really came down here to give me a leg up with my election, and not to sell your machines or to spend half your time in the enemy's camp!"
Mr. Bundercombe smiled.
It was a curious smile, which seemed somehow to lose itself in his face.
Then the dinner gong sounded and he winked at me slowly.
Again I was conscious of some slight uneasiness.
It began to dawn upon me that there was a scheme somewhere hatching; that Mr. Bundercombe's activity in the camp of the enemy might perhaps have an unsuspected significance.
I talked to Eve about this after dinner; but she reassured me.
"Father talks of nothing but his reaping machines," she declared.
"Besides, I am quite sure he would do nothing indiscreet.
Only yesterday I found him studying a copy of the act referring to bribery and corruption.
Dad's pretty smart, you know!"
"I do know that," I admitted.
"I wish I knew what he was up to, though."
The next day was the last before the election.
The little market of Bildborough was in a state of considerable excitement.
Several open-air meetings were held toward evening.
Eve and I, returning from a motor tour of the constituency, called at the office of my agent.
We chatted with Mr. Ansell for a little while and then he pointed across the square.
"There's an American there," he said, "that the other side seems to have got hold of.
He's their most popular speaker by a long way; but I gather they're a little uneasy about him.
Didn't I have the pleasure of meeting him at your house?"
"Mr. Bundercombe!"
I sighed.
"He came down here to help me!"
Mr. Ansell put on his hat and beckoned mysteriously.
"Come out by the back way," he invited.
"We shall hear him.
He is going to speak from the little platform there."
By crossing a hotel yard, a fragment of kitchen garden and a bowling green, we were able to come within a few yards of where Mr. Bundercombe, with several other of Mr. Horrocks' supporters, was standing upon a small raised platform.
Two local tradesmen and one helper from London addressed a few remarks of the usual sort to an apathetic audience, which was rapidly increasing in size.
It was only when Mr. Bundercombe rose to his feet that the slightest sign of enthusiasm manifested itself.
Eve looked at me with a pleased smile.
"Just look at all of them," she whispered, "how they are hurrying to hear dad speak!"
"That's all very well," I grumbled; "but he ought to be doing this for me."
Her fingers pressed my arm.
"Listen!"
she said.
Mr. Bundercombe's style was breezy and his jokes were frequent.
He stood in an easy attitude and spoke with remarkable fluency.
His first few remarks, which were mainly humorous, were cheered to the echo.
The crowd was increasing all the time.
Presently he took them into his confidence.
"When I came down here a few days ago," we heard him say, "I came meaning to support my friend, Mr. Walmsley."
(Groans and cheers.
) "That's all right, boys!"
Mr. Bundercombe continued, "there's nothing the matter with Mr. Walmsley; but I come from a country where there's a bit more kick about politics, and I pretty soon made up my mind that the kick wasn't on the side my young friend belongs to.
"Now just listen to this: As one business man to another, I tell you that I asked Mr. Walmsley, the first night I was here: 'What are you getting out of this?
Why are you going into Parliament?'
He didn't seem to understand.
He pleaded guilty to a four-hundred-a-year fee, but told me at the same time that it cost him a great deal more than that in extra charities.
I asked him what pull he got through being in Parliament and how many of his friends he could find places for.
All he could do was to smile and tell me that I didn't understand the way things were done in this country.
He wanted to make me believe that he was anxious to sit in Parliament there and work day after day just for the honor and glory of it, or because he thought it was his duty.
"You know I'm an American business man, and that didn't cut any ice with me; so I dropped in and had a chat with Mr. Horrocks.
I soon came to the conclusion that the candidate I'm here to support to-night is the man who comes a bit nearer to our idea of practical politics over on the other side of the pond.
Mr. Horrocks doesn't make any bones about it.
He wants that four hundred a year; in fact he needs it!"
(Ironical cheers.
) "He wants to call himself M. P.
because when he goes out to lecture on Socialism he'll get a ten-guinea fee instead of five, on account of those two letters after his name.
"Furthermore his is the party that understands what I call practical politics.
Every job that's going is given to their friends; and if there aren't enough jobs to go round, why, they get one of their statesmen to frame a bill--what you call your Insurance Bill is one of them, I believe --in which there are several hundred offices that need filling.
And there you are!"
Mr. Ansell and I exchanged glances.
The enthusiasm that had greeted Mr. Bundercombe's efforts was giving place now to murmurs and more ironical cheers.
One of his coadjutors on the platform leaned over and whispered in Mr. Bundercombe's ear.
Mr. Bundercombe nodded.
"Gentlemen," he concluded, "I'm told that my time is up.
I have explained my views to you and told you why I think you ought to vote for Mr. Horrocks.
I've nothing to say against the other fellow, except that I don't understand his point of view.
Mr. Horrocks I do understand.
He's out to do himself a bit o'good and it's up to you to help him."
A determined tug at Mr. Bundercombe's coattails by one of the men on the platform brought him to his seat amid loud bursts of laughter and more cheers.
Eve gripped my arm and we turned slowly away.
"It's a privilege," I declared solemnly, "to have ever known your father!
If I only had an idea what he meant about those reaping machines!
You couldn't give me a hint, I suppose, Eve?"
She shook her head.
"Better wait!"
In the excitement of that final day I think both Eve and I completely forgot all about Mr. Bundercombe.
It was not until we were on our way back from a motor tour through the outlying parts of the district that we were forcibly reminded of his existence.
Quite close to Little Bildborough, the only absolutely hostile part of my constituency, we came upon what was really an extraordinary sight.
Our chauffeur of his own accord drew up by the side of the road.
Eve and I rose in our places.
In a large field on our left was gathered together apparently the whole population of the district.
In one corner was a huge marquee, through the open flaps of which we could catch a glimpse of a sumptuously arranged cold collation.
On a long table just outside, covered with a white cloth, was a vast array of bottles and beside it stood a man in a short linen jacket, who struck me as being suspiciously like Fritz, the bartender at one of Mr. Bundercombe's favorite haunts in London.
Toward the center of the field, seated upon a ridiculously inadequate seat on the top of a reaping machine, was Mr. Bundercombe.
He had divested himself of coat and waistcoat, and was hatless.
The perspiration was streaming down his face as he gripped the steering wheel.
He was followed by a little crowd of children and sympathizing men, who cheered him all the time.
At a little distance away, on the other side of a red flag, Henry Jonas, the large farmer of the district, and the speaker on whom my opponent chiefly relied, was seated upon a similar machine in a similar state of undress.
It was apparent, however, even to us, that Mr. Bundercombe's progress was at least twice as rapid as his opponent's. "What on earth is it all about?"
I exclaimed, absolutely bewildered.
Eve, who was standing by my side, clasped her hands round my arm.
"It seems to me," she murmured sweetly, "as if dad were trying his reaping machine against some one else's." I looked at her demure little smile and I looked at the field in which I recognized very many of my staunchest opponents.
Then I looked at the marquee.
The table there must have been set for at least a hundred people.
Suddenly I received a shock.
Seated underneath the hedge, hatless and coatless, with his hair in picturesque disorder, was Mr. Jonas' cousin, also a violent opponent of my politics, and a nonconformist.
He had a huge tumbler by his side, which--seeing me--he raised to his lips.
"Good old Walmsley!"
he shouted out.
"No politics to-day!
Much too hot!
Come in and see the reaping match."
He took a long drink and I sat down in the car.
"You know," I said to Mr. Ansell, who was standing on the front seat, "there'll be trouble about this!"
Mr. Ansell was looking a little grave himself.
"Is Mr. Bundercombe really the manufacturer of that machine?"
he asked.
"Of course he is!"
Eve replied.
"It's the one hobby of his life--or, rather, it used to be," she corrected herself hastily.
"Even now, when he begins talking about his reaping machine he forgets everything else."
Mr. Ansell hurried away and made a few inquiries.
Meanwhile we watched the progress of the match.
Every time Mr. Bundercombe had to turn he rocked in his seat and retained his balance only with difficulty.
At every successful effort he was loudly cheered by a little group of following enthusiasts.
Mr. Ansell returned, looking a little more cheerful.
"Everything is being given by the Bundercombe Reaping Company," he announced, "and Mr. Bundercombe's city agent is on the spot prepared to book orders for the machine.
It seems that Mr. Bundercombe has backed himself at ten to one in ten-pound notes to beat Mr. Jonas by half an hour, each taking half the field."
"Who's ahead?"
Eve asked excitedly.
"Mr. Bundercombe is well ahead," Mr. Ansell replied, "and they say that he can do better still if he tries.
It looks rather," Mr. Ansell concluded, dropping his voice, "as though he were trying to make the thing last out.
Afterward they are all going to sit down to a free meal--that is, if any of them are able to sit down," he added, with a glance round the field.
"Hello!
Here's Harrison."
Mr. Harrison, recognizing us, descended from his car and came across.
He shook hands with Eve, at whom he glanced in a somewhat peculiar fashion.
"Mr. Walmsley," he said, "a week ago we were rather proud of having inveigled away one of your adherents.
All I can say at the present moment is that we should have been better satisfied if you had left Mr. Bundercombe in town."
"Why, he's been speaking against me at nearly every one of your meetings!"
I protested.
"That's all very well," Mr. Harrison complained; "but he's not what I should call a convincing speaker.
He is a democrat all right, and a people's man--and all the rest of it; but he hasn't got quite the right way of advocating our principles.
I have been obliged to ask him to discontinue public speaking until after the election.
The fact of it is, I really believe he's cost us a good many more votes than he's gained.
All he says is very well; but when he sits down one feels that our people are all for what they can get out of it--and yours are prepared to give their services for nothing."
"What's all this mean?"
I asked, waving my hand toward the field.
Mr. Harrison looked at me very steadily indeed.
Then he looked at Eve.
I
can only hope that my own expression was as guileless as Eve's. "I told you about that hint we were obliged to give Mr. Bundercombe," Mr. Harrison went on.
"I suppose this is the result of it.
He seems to have bewitched the whole of Little Bildborough.
There's Jonas there, who was due to speak in four places today--he will take no notice of anybody.
I
walked by the side of his machine, begging him to get down and come and keep his engagements, and he took no more notice of me than if I'd been a rabbit!
"There's his cousin, who has more hold upon the nonconformists of the district than any man I know--sitting under a hedge drinking out of a tumbler!
There are at least a score of men with their eyes glued on that tent who ought to be hard at work in the district.
I am beginning to doubt whether they'll even be in in time to vote!"
"Well, we must be getting on, anyway," I said.
"See you later, Mr. Harrison!"
Mr. Harrison nodded a little gloomily and we glided off.
Eve squeezed my hand under the rug.
"Isn't dad a dear!"
she murmured in my ear.
Eve was one of the first to congratulate me when, late that night, the results came in and I found that by a majority of twenty-seven votes I had been elected the member for the division.
"Aren't you glad now, Paul, dear, that we brought father down to keep him out of mischief?"
she whispered.
Mr. Bundercombe himself held out his hand.
"Paul," he said, "I congratulate you, my boy!
I was on the other side; but I can take a licking with the best of them.
Congratulate you heartily!"
He held out his hand and gripped mine.
Once more he winked.
