‘Go on, Snip.  We all know what that means.’

‘A thorough-paced reformer—­’

’Never mind your paces, man; but get on.  Tell us something new.  We’re all reformers, we are.’

Poor Mr Moffat was a little thrown back.  It wasn’t so easy to tell these gentlemen anything new, harnessed as he was at this moment; so he looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint.  ’Say something about their daughters,’ whispered George, whose own flights of oratory were always on that subject.  Had he counselled Mr Moffat to way a word or two about the tides, his advice would not have been less to the purpose.

‘Gentlemen,’ he began again—­’you all know that I am a thorough-paced reformer—­’

’Oh, drat your reform.  He’s a dumb dog.  Go back to your goose, Snippy; you never were made for this work.  Go to Courcy Castle and reform that.’

Mr Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered by such facetiae as these, when an egg—­and it may be feared not a fresh egg—­flung with unerring precision, struck him on the open part of his well-plaited shirt, and reduced him to speechless despair.

An egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered; but it is not calculated to add much spirit to a man’s eloquence, or to ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above described.  Men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not be stopped even by such an argument as this; but Mr Moffat was not one of them.  As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat, he felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of their votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, was for that occasion denied him.  He could not be self-confident, energetic, witty, and good-humoured with a rotten egg, drying through his clothes.  He was forced, therefore, to give way, and with sadly disconcerted air retired from the open window at which he had been standing.

It was in vain that the Honourable George, Mr Nearthewinde, and Frank endeavoured again to bring him to the charge.  He was like a beaten prize-fighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he stands up, only stands up to fall.  Mr Moffat got sulky also, and when he was pressed, said that Barchester and the people in it might be d——.  ‘With all my heart,’ said Mr Nearthewinde.  ’That wouldn’t have any effect on their votes.’

But, in truth, it mattered very little whether Mr Moffat spoke, or whether he didn’t speak.  Four o’clock was the hour for closing the poll, and that was now fast coming.  Tremendous exertions had been made about half-past three, by a safe emissary sent from Nearthewinde, to prove to Mr Reddypalm that all manner of contingent advantages would accrue to the Brown Bear if it should turn out that Mr Moffat should take his seat for Barchester.  No bribe was, of course offered or even hinted at.  The purity of Barchester was not contaminated during the day by one such curse as this.  But a man, and a publican, would be required to do some great deed in the public line; to open some colossal tap; to draw beer for the million; and no one would be so fit as Mr Reddypalm—­if only it might turn out that Mr Moffat should, in the coming February, take his seat as member for Barchester.