Five days after my encounter with the red-headed vagrant, the following paragraph appeared in one of the local papers:  “Pocklingham.  In the casual ward of the Union house for this district a tramp, name unknown, died last night.  He had been admitted on the previous evening, but, for some unexplained reason, it was not noticed until the next morning that he suffered from illness, and, therefore, he was allowed to mix with the other inmates in the general ward.  Drs. Butt and Clarkson, who were called in to attend, state that the cause of death was the worst form of smallpox.  The body will be buried in quicklime, but some alarm is felt in the district owing to the deceased, who, it is said, arrived here from Dunchester, where he had been frequenting various tramps’ lodgings, having mixed with a number of other vagrants, who left the house before the character of his sickness was discovered, and who cannot now be traced.  The unfortunate man was about forty years of age, of medium height, and red-haired.”

The same paper had an editorial note upon this piece of news, at the end of which it remarked, as became a party and an anti-vaccination organ:  “The terror of this ‘filth disease,’ which in our fathers’ time amounted almost to insanity, no longer afflicts us, who know both that its effects were exaggerated and how to deal with it by isolation without recourse to the so-called vaccine remedies, which are now rejected by a large proportion of the population of these islands.  Still, as we have ascertained by inquiry that this unfortunate man did undoubtedly spend several days and nights wandering about our city when in an infectious condition, it will be as well that the authorities should be on the alert.  We do not want that hoary veteran—­the smallpox scare—­to rear its head again in Dunchester, least of all just now, when, in view of the imminent election, the accustomed use would be made of it by our prejudiced and unscrupulous political opponents.”

“No,” I said to myself as I put the paper down, “certainly we do not want a smallpox scare just now, and still less do we want the smallpox.”  Then I thought of that unfortunate red-headed wretch, crazy with the torment of his disease, and of his hideous laughter, as he hunted and caught the children who made a mock of him—­the poor children, scarcely one of whom was vaccinated.

A week later I opened my political campaign with a large public meeting in the Agricultural Hall.  Almost up to the nomination day no candidate was forthcoming on the other side, and I thought that, for the fourth time, I should be returned unopposed.  Of a sudden, however, a name was announced, and it proved to be none other than that of my rival of many years ago—­Sir Thomas Colford—­now like myself growing grey-headed, but still vigorous in mind and body, and as much respected as ever by the wealthier and more educated classes of our community.  His appearance in the field put a new complexion on matters; it meant, indeed, that instead of the easy and comfortable walk over which I had anticipated, I must fight hard for my political existence.