“I don’t see the good of that,” said Mr. Hawley. “I suppose we all know whom we mean to vote for. Any man who wants to do justice does not wait till the last minute to hear both sides of the question. I have no time to lose, and I propose that the matter be put to the vote at once.”
A brief but still hot discussion followed before each person wrote “Tyke” or “Farebrother” on a piece of paper and slipped it into a glass tumbler; and in the meantime Mr. Bulstrode saw Lydgate enter.
“I perceive that the votes are equally divided at present,” said Mr. Bulstrode, in a clear biting voice. Then, looking up at Lydgate—
“There is a casting-vote still to be given. It is yours, Mr. Lydgate: will you be good enough to write?”
“The thing is settled now,” said Mr. Wrench, rising. “We all know how Mr. Lydgate will vote.”
“You seem to speak with some peculiar meaning, sir,” said Lydgate, rather defiantly, and keeping his pencil suspended.
“I merely