The reading-room of the Literary Institute heard many an animated conversation among the zealous partisans who hoped great things from the approaching contest.  The talkers were not men of recognized standing, the manufacturers and landowners whose influence was of most importance—­for these personages were seldom seen at the Institute; but certain “small” people, fidgety, or effervescent, or enthusiastic, eager to hear their own voices raised in declamation, and to get spoken of in the town as representatives of public opinion.  Such a group had gathered early one afternoon in this month of October.  The hour was unusual, for between one o’clock and four the reading-room was generally abandoned to a few very quiet, somnolent persons; but to-day an exciting piece of news had got about in Polterham, and two or three ardent politicians hastened from their dinner-tables to discuss the situation with Mr. Wykes, secretary of the Institute, or any one else who might present himself.  It was reported that Mr. Welwyn-Baker had had a seizure of some kind, and that he lay in a dangerous state at his house just outside the town.

“It’s perfectly true,” affirmed Mr. Wykes.  “I saw Dr. Staple on his way there.  He’ll never survive it.  We shall have a bye-election—­ the very last thing desirable.”

The Secretary was a man of intelligence features but painfully distorted body; his right leg, permanently bent double, was supported at the knee by metal mechanism, and his arm on the opposite side ended at the elbow.  None the less he moved with much activity, gesticulated frequently with the normal arm, and seemed always to be in excellent spirits.  He was a Cambridge graduate, but had never been able to make much use of his education and abilities; having reached middle age, and finding himself without resources, he was glad to accept this post at the Institute.

About him stood three Polterham worthies:  Mr. Chown, draper, a member of the Corporation; Mr. Vawdrey, coal-merchant; and Mr. Murgatroyd, dentist.  The draper—­tall, bearded, with goggle eyes and prominent cheek-bones—­had just rushed in; as soon as Mr. Wykes had spoken, he exclaimed in a hard, positive voice: 

“It’s nothing! it’s nothing!  I have it on the best assurance that it was only a fall over a footstool.  Muscles strained—­a bruise or two—­nothing worse.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, on every ground,” said Wykes.  “But even if that is quite correct, it’ll be a warning.  A fall at that age generally dates the beginning of decrepitude.  He won’t come forward again—­I’m convinced he won’t.”

“Let us hope they’ll be foolish enough to set up his son,” remarked Mr. Vawdrey, in deep tones, which harmonized with his broad, stunted body and lowering visage.  “It’ll be their ruin.”

Mr. Wykes agreed.

“The waverers can hardly douht—­between Tobias Liversedge and Hugh Welwyn-Baker.”

“Bear in mind,” rang Mr. Chown’s brassy voice, “that it’s by no means certain Liversedge is to be our candidate.  I am in a position to assure you that many of our most reliable men are not at all satisfied with that choice—­not at all satisfied.  I don’t mind going so far as to declare that I share this dissatisfaction.”