the man who knew too much-第31章

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l　in　Lincoln　green　instead　of　Lincoln　and　Bennet　hats？〃

〃No；〃　answered　Old　Saltoun；　〃I　don't　think　it　would　be　a　joke。　I　think　it　would　be　an　exceedingly　serious　and　sensible　idea。〃

〃Well；　I'm　jiggered！〃　cried　Harry　Fisher；　staring　at　him。　〃I　said　just　now　it　was　the　first　fact　you　didn't　know；　and　I　should　say　this　is　the　first　joke　you　didn't　see。〃

〃I've　seen　a　good　many　things　in　my　time；〃　said　the　old　man；　in　his　rather　sour　fashion。　〃I've　told　a　good　many　lies　in　my　time；　too；　and　perhaps　I've　got　rather　sick　of　them。　But　there　are　lies　and　lies；　for　all　that。　Gentlemen　used　to　lie　just　as　schoolboys　lie；　because　they　hung　together　and　partly　to　help　one　another　out。　But　I'm　damned　if　I　can　see　why　we　should　lie　for　these　cosmopolitan　cads　who　only　help　themselves。　They're　not　backing　us　up　any　more；　they're　simply　crowding　us　out。　If　a　man　like　your　brother　likes　to　go　into　Parliament　as　a　yeoman　or　a　gentleman　or　a　Jacobite　or　an　Ancient　Briton；　I　should　say　it　would　be　a　jolly　good　thing。〃

In　the　rather　startled　silence　that　followed　Horne　Fisher　sprang　to　his　feet　and　all　his　dreary　manner　dropped　off　him。

〃I'm　ready　to　do　it　to…morrow；〃　he　cried。　〃I　suppose　none　of　you　fellows　would　back　me　up。〃

Then　Harry　Fisher　showed　the　finer　side　of　his　impetuosity。　He　made　a　sudden　movement　as　if　to　shake　hands。

〃You're　a　sport；〃　he　said；　〃and　I'll　back　you　up；　if　nobody　else　will。　But　we　can　all　back　you　up；　can't　we？　I　see　what　Lord　Saltoun　means；　and；　of　course；　he's　right。　He's　always　right。〃

〃So　I　will　go　down　to　Somerset；〃　said　Horne　Fisher。

〃Yes；　it　is　on　the　way　to　Westminster；〃　said　Lord　Saltoun；　with　a　smile。

And　so　it　happened　that　Horne　Fisher　arrived　some　days　later　at　the　little　station　of　a　rather　remote　market　town　in　the　west；　accompanied　by　a　light　suitcase　and　a　lively　brother。　It　must　not　be　supposed；　however；　that　the　brother's　cheerful　tone　consisted　entirely　of　chaff。　He　supported　the　new　candidate　with　hope　as　well　as　hilarity；　and　at　the　back　of　his　boisterous　partnership　there　was　an　increasing　sympathy　and　encouragement。　Harry　Fisher　had　always　had　an　affection　for　his　more　quiet　and　eccentric　brother；　and　was　now　coming　more　and　more　to　have　a　respect　for　him。　As　the　campaign　proceeded　the　respect　increased　to　ardent　admiration。　For　Harry　was　still　young；　and　could　feel　the　sort　of　enthusiasm　for　his　captain　in　electioneering　that　a　schoolboy　can　feel　for　his　captain　in　cricket。

Nor　was　the　admiration　undeserved。　As　the　new　three…cornered　contest　developed　it　became　apparent　to　others　besides　his　devoted　kinsman　that　there　was　more　in　Horne　Fisher　than　had　ever　met　the　eye。　It　was　clear　that　his　outbreak　by　　the　family　fireside　had　been　but　the　culmination　of　a　long　course　of　brooding　and　studying　on　the　question。　The　talent　he　retained　　through　life　for　studying　his　subject；　and　even　somebodys　else's　subject；　had　long　been　concentrated　on　this　idea　of　championing　a　new　peasantry　against　a　new　plutocracy。　He　spoke　to　a　crowd　with　eloquence　and　replied　to　an　individual　with　humor；　two　political　arts　that　seemed　to　come　to　him　naturally。　He　certainly　knew　much　more　about　rural　problems　than　either　Hughes；　the　Reform　candidate；　or　Verner；　the　Constitutional　candidate。　And　he　probed　those　problems　with　a　human　curiosity；　and　went　below　the　surface　in　a　way　that　neither　of　them　dreamed　of　doing。　He　soon　became　the　voice　of　popular　feelings　that　are　never　found　in　the　popular　press。　New　angles　of　criticism；　arguments　that　had　never　before　been　uttered　by　an　educated　voice；　tests　and　comparisons　that　had　been　made　only　in　dialect　by　men　drinking　in　the　little　local　public　houses；　crafts　half　forgotten　that　had　come　down　by　sign　of　hand　and　tongue　from　remote　ages　when　their　fathers　were　free　all　this　created　a　curious　and　double　excitement。　It　startled　the　well　informed　by　being　a　new　and　fantastic　idea　they　had　never　encountered。　It　startled　the　ignorant　by　being　an　old　and　familiar　idea　they　never　thought　to　have　seen　revived。　Men　saw　things　in　a　new　light；　and　knew　not　even　whether　it　was　the　sunset　or　the　dawn。

Practical　grievances　were　there　to　make　the　movement　formidable。　As　Fisher　went　to　and　fro　among　the　cottages　and　country　inns；　it　was　borne　in　on　him　without　difficulty　that　Sir　Francis　Verner　was　a　very　bad　landlord。　Nor　was　the　story　of　his　acquisition　of　the　land　any　more　ancient　and　dignified　than　he　had　supposed；　the　story　was　well　known　in　the　county　and　in　most　respects　was　obvious　enough。　Hawker；　the　old　squire；　had　been　a　loose；　unsatisfactory　sort　of　person；　had　been　on　bad　terms　with　his　first　wife　（who　died；　as　some　said；　of　neglect）；　and　had　then　married　a　flashy　South　American　Jewess　with　a　fortune。　But　he　must　have　worked　his　way　through　this　fortune　also　with　marvelous　rapidity；　for　he　had　been　compelled　to　sell　the　estate　to　Verner　and　had　gone　to　live　in　South　America；　possibly　on　his　wife's　estates。　But　Fisher　noticed　that　the　laxity　of　the　old　squire　was　far　less　hated　than　the　efficiency　of　the　new　squire。　Verner's　history　seemed　to　be　full　of　smart　bargains　and　financial　flutters　that　left　other　people　short　of　money　and　temper。　But　though　he　heard　a　great　deal　about　Verner；　there　was　one　thing　that　continually　eluded　him；　something　that　nobody　knew；　that　even　Saltoun　had　not　known。　He　could　not　find　out　how　Verner　had　originally　made　his　money。

〃He　must　have　kept　it　specially　dark；〃　said　Horne　Fisher　to　himself。　〃It　must　be　something　he's　really　ashamed　of。　Hang　it　all！　what　IS　a　man　ashamed　of　nowadays？〃

And　as　he　pondered　on　the　possibilities　they　grew　darker　and　more　distorted　in　his　mind；　he　thought　vaguely　of　things　remote　and　repulsive；　strange　forms　of　slavery　or　sorcery；　and　then　of　ugly　things　yet　more　unnatural　but　nearer　home。　The　figure　of　Verner　seemed　to　be　blackened　and　transfigured　in　his　imagination；　and　to　stand　against　varied　backgrounds　and　strange　skies。

As　he　strode　up　a　village　street；　brooding　thus；　his　eyes　encountered　a　complete　contrast　in　the　face　of　his　other　rival；　the　Reform　candidate。　Eric　Hughes；　with　his　blown　blond　hair　and　eager　undergraduate　face；　was　just　getting　into　his　motor　car　and　saying　a　few　final　words　to　his　agent；　a　sturdy；　grizzled　man　named　Gryce。　Eric　Hughes　waved　his　hand　in　a　friendly　fashion；　but　Gryce　eyed　him　with　some　hostility。　Eric　Hughes　was　a　young　man　with　genuine　political　enthusiasms；；　but　he　knew　that　political　opponents　are　people　with　whom　one　may　have　to　dine　any　day。　But　Mr。　Gryce　was　a　grim　little　local　Radical；　a　champion　of　the　chapel；　and　one　of　those　happy　people　whose　work　is　also　their　hobby。　He　turned　his　back　as　the　motor　car　drove　away；　and　walked　briskly　up　the　sunlit　high　street　of　the　little　town；　whistling；　with　political　papers　sticking　out　of　his　pocket。

Fisher　looked　pensively　after　the　resolute　figure　for　a　moment；　and　then；　as　if　by　an　impulse；　began　to　follow　it。　Through　the　busy　market　place；　amid　the　baskets　and　barrows　of　market　day；　under　the　painted　wooden　sign　of　the　Green　Dragon；　up　a　dark　side　entry；　under　an　arch；　and　through　a　tangle　of　crooked　cobbled　streets　the　two　threaded　their　way；　the　square；　strutting　figure　in　front　and　the　lean；　lounging　figure　behind　him；　like　his　shadow　in　the　sunshine。　At　length　they　came　to　a　brown　brick　house　with　a　brass　plate；　on　which　was　Mr。　Gryce's　name；　and　that　individual　turned　and　beheld　　his　pursuer　with　a　stare。

〃Could　I　have　a　word　with　you；　sir？〃　asked　Horne　Fisher；　politely。　The　agent　stared　still　more；　but　assented　civilly；　and　led　the　other　into　an　office　littered　with　leaflets　and　hung　all　round　with　highly　colored　posters　which　linked　the　name　of　Hughes　with　all　the　higher　interests　of　humanity。

〃Mr。　Horne　Fisher；　I　believe；〃　said　Mr。　Gryce。　〃Much　honored　by　the　call；　of　course。　Can't　pretend　to　congratulate　you　on　entering　the　contest；　I'm　afraid；　you　won't　expect　that。　Here　we've　been　keeping　the　old　flag　flying　for　freedom　and　reform；　and　you　come　in　and　break　the　battle　line。〃

For　Mr。　Elijah　Gryce　abounded　in　military　metaphors　and　in　denunciations　of　militarism。　He　was　a　square…jawed；　blunt…featured　man　with　a　pugnacious　cock　of　the　eyebrow。　He　had　been　pickled　in　the　polit