John Murchison, Alec, and Oliver came shortly up to dinner, bringing stirring tales from the field.  There was the personator in Subdivision Six of a dead man—­a dead Grit—­wanted by the bloodhounds of the other side and tracked to the Reform committee room, where he was ostensibly and publicly taking refuge.

“Why did he go there?” asked Stella, breathlessly.

“Why, to make it look like a put-up job of ours, of course, “said her brother.  “And it was a put-up job, a good old Tory fake.  But they didn’t calculate on Bingham and Bingham’s memory.  Bingham happened to be in the committee room, and he recognized this fellow for a regular political tough from up Muskoka way, where they get six for a bottle of Canadian and ten if it’s Scotch.  ‘Why, good morning,’ says Bingham, ’thought you were in jail,’ and just then he catches sight of a couple of trailers from the window.  Well, Bingham isn’t just lightning smart, but then he isn’t slow, you know.  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘you can’t stop here,’ and in another second he was throwing the fellow out.  Threw him out pretty hard, too.  I guess; right down the stairs, and Bingham on top.  Met Winter’s men at the door.  ’The next time you want information from the headquarters of this association, gentlemen,’ Bingham said, ‘send somebody respectable.’  Bingham thought the man was just any kind of low spy at first, but when they claimed him for personation, Bingham just laughed.  ’Don’t be so hard on your friends; he said.  I don’t think we’ll hear much more about that little racket.”

“Can’t anything be done to any of them?” asked Stella.  “Not today, of course, but when there’s time.”

“We’ll have to see about it, Stella,” said Alec.  “When there’s time.”

“Talking about Bingham,” Oliver told them; “you know Bingham’s story about Jim Whelan keeping sober for two weeks, for the first time in twenty years, to vote for Winter?  Wouldn’t touch a thing—­no, he was going to do it this time, if he died for it; it was disagreeable to refuse drinks, but it was going to be worth his while.  Been boasting about the post-office janitorship Winter was to give him if he got in.  Well, in he came to Number Eleven this morning all dressed up, with a clean collar, looking thirstier than any man you ever saw, and gets his paper.  Young Charlie Bingham is deputy returning officer at Number Eleven.  In a second back comes Whelan.  ’This ballot’s marked; he says; ‘you don’t fool me.’  ’Is it?’ says Charlie, taking it out of his hand.  ’That’s very wrong, Jim; you shouldn’t have marked it,’ and drops it into the ballot-box.  Oh, Jim was wild!  The paper had gone in blank, you see, and he’d lost all those good drunks and his vote too!  He was going to have Charlie’s blood right away.  But there it was—­done.  He’d handed in his ballot—­he couldn’t have another.”

They all laughed, I fear, at the unfortunate plight of the too suspicious Whelan.  “Why did he think the ballot was marked?” asked Advena.