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ON HIS WAY THROUGH THE WORLD 635
" If the two men," bawled Philip, from the " Ram " window,
" could decide the contest with their coats off before the markethouse
yonder, which do you think would win—the fair man or the
darkey?" (Loud cries of "Hornblow for iver !" or "Mr. Philip
we'll have yew.") "But you see, my friends, Mr. Woolcomb does
not like a fair fight. Why doesn't he show at the ' Ringwood
Arms' and speak? I don't believe he can speak—not English.
Are you men ? Are you Englishmen ? Are you white slaves to be
sold to that fellow?" (Immense uproar. Mr. Finch, the Ringwood
agent, in vain tries to get a hearing from the balcony of the
"Ringwood Arms.") "Why does not Sir John Ringwood—my
Lord Ringwood now—come down amongst his tenantry, and back
the man he has sent down ? I suppose he is ashamed to look his
tenants in the face. I should be, if I ordered them to do such
a degrading job. You know, gentlemen, that I am a Ringwood
myself. My grandfather lies buried—no, not buried—in yonder
church. His tomb is there. His body lies on the glorious field of
Busaco!" (" Hurray !") " l am Ringwood." (Cries of " Hoo
—down. No Ringwoods year. We wunt have un!") " And
before George, if I had a vote, I would give it for the gallant, the
good, the admirable, the excellent Hornblow. Some one holds up the
state of the poll, and Woolcomb is ahead ! I can only say, electors
of Whipham, the more shame for you!" "Hooray! Bravo!" The
boys, the people, the shouting, are all on our side. The voting, I
regret to say, steadily continues in favour of the enemy.
As Philip was making his speech, an immense banging of drums
and blowing of trumpets arose from the balcony of the " Ringwood
Arms," and a something resembling the song of triumph, called
" See the Conquering Hero comes," was performed by the opposition
orchestra. The lodge-gates of the park were now decorated with
the Ringwood and Woolcomb flags. They were flung open, and a
dark green chariot with four grey horses issued from the park.
On the chariot was an earl's coronet, and the people looked rather
scared as it came towards us, and said : " Do'ee look, now, 'tis my
Lard's own postchaise !" On former days Mr. Woolcomb, and his
wife as his aide-de-camp, had driven through the town in an open
barouche ; but, to-day being rainy, preferred the shelter of the old
chariot, and we saw, presently, within, Mr. Bradgate, the London
agent, and by his side the darkling figure of Mr. Woolcomb. He
had passed many agonising hours, we were told subsequently, in
attempting to learn a speech. He cried over it. He never could
get it by heart. He swore like a frantic child at his wife who
endeavoured to teach him his lesson.
"Now's the time, Mr. Briggs!" Philip said to Mr. B., our