words.  Everybody looked up at the open windows in the houses at the opposite angles of the converging streets; but they were either blank, or filled by laughing listeners.  The most innocent echo has an impish mockery in it when it follows a gravely persistent speaker, and this echo was not at all innocent; if it did not follow with the precision of a natural echo, it had a wicked choice of the words it overtook.  By the time it said, “The Baltic, now,” the laugh which had been running through the audience became a general shout, and but for the sobering effects of party and that great public cause which the entanglement of things had identified with “Brooke of Tipton,” the laugh might have caught his committee.  Mr. Bulstrode asked, reprehensively, what the new police was doing; but a voice could not well be collared, and an attack on the effigy of the candidate would have been too equivocal, since Hawley probably meant it to be pelted.

Mr. Brooke himself was not in a position to be quickly conscious of anything except a general slipping away of ideas within himself:  he had even a little singing in the ears, and he was the only person who had not yet taken distinct account of the echo or discerned the image of himself.  Few things hold the perceptions more thoroughly captive than anxiety about what we have got to say.  Mr. Brooke heard the laughter; but he had expected some Tory efforts at disturbance, and he was at this moment additionally excited by the tickling, stinging sense that his lost exordium was coming back to fetch him from the Baltic.

“That reminds me,” he went on, thrusting a hand into his side-pocket, with an easy air, “if I wanted a precedent, you know—­but we never want a precedent for the right thing—­but there is Chatham, now; I can’t say I should have supported Chatham, or Pitt, the younger Pitt—­ he was not a man of ideas, and we want ideas, you know.”

“Blast your ideas! we want the Bill,” said a loud rough voice from the crowd below.

Immediately the invisible Punch, who had hitherto followed Mr. Brooke, repeated, “Blast your ideas! we want the Bill.”  The laugh was louder than ever, and for the first time Mr. Brooke being himself silent, heard distinctly the mocking echo.  But it seemed to ridicule his interrupter, and in that light was encouraging; so he replied with amenity—­

“There is something in what you say, my good friend, and what do we meet for but to speak our minds—­freedom of opinion, freedom of the press, liberty—­that kind of thing?  The Bill, now—­you shall have the Bill”—­here Mr. Brooke paused a moment to fix on his eye-glass and take the paper from his breast-pocket, with a sense of being practical and coming to particulars.  The invisible Punch followed:—­

“You shall have the Bill, Mr. Brooke, per electioneering contest, and a seat outside Parliament as delivered, five thousand pounds, seven shillings, and fourpence.”