McEwart, who was sitting beside him, opened it, and presently gave a low involuntary whistle of dismay.  Marsham looked round.

“What’s the matter?”

McEwart would have gladly flung the paper away.  But looking round him he saw that several other persons on the top of the coach had copies, and that whispering consternation had begun.

He saw nothing for it but to hand the paper to Marsham.  “This is playing it pretty low down!” he said, pointing to an item in large letters on the first page.

Marsham handed the reins to the groom beside him and took the paper.  He saw, printed in full, Barrington’s curt letter to himself on the subject of the Herald article, and below it the jubilant and scathing comments of the Tory editor.

He read both carefully, and gave the paper back to McEwart.  “That decides the election,” he said, calmly.  McEwart’s face assented.

* * * * *

Marsham, however, never showed greater pluck than at the Hartingfield meeting.  It was a rowdy and disgraceful business, in which from beginning to end he scarcely got a hearing for more than three sentences at a time.  A shouting mob of angry men, animated by passions much more than political, held him at bay.  But on this occasion he never once lost his temper; he caught the questions and insults hurled at him, and threw them back with unfailing skill; and every now and then, at some lull in the storm, he made himself heard, and to good purpose.  His courage and coolness propitiated some and exasperated others.

A group of very rough fellows pursued him, shouting and yelling, as he left the school-room where the meeting was held.

“Take care!” said McEwart, hurrying him along.  “They are beginning with stones, and I see no police about.”

The little party of visitors made for the coach, protected by some of the villagers.  But in the dusk the stones came flying fast and freely.  Just as Marsham was climbing into his seat he was struck.  McEwart saw him waver, and heard a muttered exclamation.

“You’re hurt!” he said, supporting him.  “Let the groom drive.”

Marsham pushed him away.

“It’s nothing.”  He gathered up the reins, the grooms who had been holding the horses’ heads clambered into their places, a touch of the whip, and the coach was off, almost at a gallop, pursued by a shower of missiles.

After a mile at full speed Marsham pulled in the horses, and handed the reins to the groom.  As he did so a low groan escaped him.

“You are hurt!” exclaimed McEwart.  “Where did they hit you?”

Marsham shook his head.

“Better not talk,” he said, in a whisper, “Drive home.”

An hour afterward, it was announced to the crowded gathering in the Dunscombe Corn Exchange that Mr. Marsham had been hurt by a stone at Hartingfield, and could not address the meeting.  The message was received with derision rather than sympathy.  It was universally believed that the injury was a mere excuse, and that the publication of that most damning letter, on the very eve of the poll, was the sole and only cause why the Junior Lord of the Treasury failed on this occasion to meet the serried rows of his excited countrymen, waiting for him in the packed and stifling hall.