“If any of you come a step nearer,” he shouted, “the sow will be inside in half a jiffy.”

A storm of threatening, arguing, entreating expostulation broke from the baffled rescue party, but it made no more impression on Hyacinth than the squealing tempest that raged within the stye.

“If Jutterly heads the poll I’m going to let the sow in. I’ll teach the blighters to win elections from us.”

“He means it,” said Mrs. Panstreppon; “I feared the worst when I saw that butterscotch incident.”

“It’s all right, my little man,” said Jutterly, with the duplicity to which even a Colonial Secretary can sometimes stoop, “your father has been elected by a large majority.”