It was bitterly cold.  Glazzard began to walk up and down, his eyes straying vaguely.  He felt a miserable sinking of the heart, a weariness as if after great exertion.

An engine came rolling slowly along one of the lines; it stopped just beyond the station, and then backed into a siding.  There followed the thud of carriage against carriage:  a train was being made up, he went to watch the operation.  The clang of metal, the hiss of steam, the moving about of men with lanterns held his attention for some time, and so completely that he forgot all else.

Somewhere far away sounded a long-drawn whistle, now faint, now clearer, a modulated wail broken at moments by a tremolo on one high note.  It was like a voice lamenting to the dead of night.  Glazzard could not endure it; he turned back into the station and tramped noisily on the stone platform.

Then the air was disturbed by the dull roar of an approaching train, and presently a long string of loaded waggons passed without pause.  The engine-fire glowed upon heavy puffs of smoke, making them a rich crimson.  A freight of iron bars clanged and clashed intolerably.  When remoteness at length stilled them, there rose again the long wailing whistle; it was answered by another like it from still greater distance.

Glazzard could stand and walk no longer.  He threw himself on a seat, crossed his arms, and remained motionless until the ringing of a bell and a sudden turning on of lights warned him that his train drew near.

On the way to Polterham he dozed, and only a fortunate awaking at the last moment saved him from passing his station.  It was now close upon two o’clock, and he had a two-mile walk to Highmead.  His brother believed that he was spending the evening with an acquaintance in a neighbouring town; he had said he should probably be very late, and a side door was to be left unbarred that he might admit himself with a latch-key.

But for a policeman here and there, the streets were desolate.  Wherever the lamplight fell upon a wall or hoarding, it illumined election placards, with the names of the candidates in staring letters, and all the familiar vulgarities of party advertising.  “Welwyn-Baker and the Honour of Old England!”—­“Vote for Quarrier, the Friend of the Working Man!”—­“No Jingoism!” “The Constitution in Danger!  Polterham to the Rescue!” These trumpetings to the battle restored Glazzard’s self-satisfaction; he smiled once more, and walked on with lighter step.

Just outside the town, in a dark narrow road, he was startled by the sudden rising of a man’s figure.  A voice exclaimed, in thick, ebrious tones:  “Who are you for?  What’s you’re colour?”

“Who are you for?” called out Glazzard, in return, as he walked past.

The politician—­who had seemingly been asleep in the ditch—­ raised himself to his full height and waved his arms about.