Free The Dawn of Reckoning by James Hilton Page A

political partisanship, it was a relief to find a human and
strictly personal keenness. In many a workman’s and farm-labourer’s cottage
that she canvassed, the name Ward was mentioned inevitably, always with
respect, sometimes with a feeling akin to reverence. “We shall vote for your
brother, miss,” was a quite usual remark, “because Doctor Ward put in a good
word for him the last time he was here.”
    She tried to ignore these repeated testimonials to Ward’s influence; she
did not care to think that Philip, if successful, would owe everything to his
friend. But there were certain things which she could not ignore. Ward, she
discovered, had become almost a local hero, a patron saint; he had done deeds
in those tiny houses that their occupants could never forget; the detailed
stories of them came to her continually as she canvassed from door to door;
she did not ask for them; she did not want to hear them, for they wasted her
time and were almost endless in the telling.
    When she told Philip of Ward’s energetic and valuable canvassing on his
behalf he seemed partly pleased and partly troubled. “It’s splendid of him,
Stella…But—but I want people to vote for me because they think I’m
worth it, not—not because other people tell them to.”
    “I think Kemp is right,” she answered, “and you ought to have been a
parson.”
    As the polling-day came nearer Ward’s partisan ship developed on more
active lines. He plunged into the thick of the campaign with all the zest of
the young and irresponsible medical student; he drove a lorry round the town,
packed to the brim with shouting children; he festooned his motor-cycle with
“Vote for Monsell” bills; the whole affair might have been a great and
gorgeous “rag.” Stella could not decide whether she liked him for it or not.
But there was a careless rapture in his adventures that she could not help
but admire; she felt sometimes that he was no more than a huge boy, running
wild with infectious excitement. Once, whilst canvassing in a crowded alley,
she met him as he suddenly swung round the corner on his flamboyantly
decorated motor-cycle. He stopped and smiled at her. His smile, like his
enthusiasm, was infectious. For the first time in her life she did not feel
acutely un comfortable because he was near to her. She was not even
perturbed. On the contrary she laughed in his face and exclaimed: “Well,
enjoying yourself, eh? I believe you’re having the time of your life with all
this business, aren’t you?”
    “It’s great fun,” he answered boyishly. “I hope Philip’s enjoying it half
as much as I am.”
    “I don’t think he is,” she replied.
    “Well, of course”—he shrugged his shoulders—“it’s more serious
to him than to me. Frankly, I don’t care a jot for politics, one side or
another, but I want to see Philip in, that’s all…”
    “Don’t you think politics are important?”
    “Oh, maybe…But to me my own job’s more important, naturally…After all,
it doesn’t seem to make much difference which side gets in. You still have
this sort of thing, don’t you?” And he swung his arm round to indicate the
dejected slum property that surrounded them. He added musingly: “If I ever
went in for Parliament I think I should stand as an Anti-Tuberculosis
candidate.”
    She made no answer, and after a short pause he gave a jerk to his
self-starter and went on: “Ah, well, we’re doing our best, aren’t
we?—I’ve got eleven more votes for you this morning. What’s your
bag?”
    “None so far,” she replied, “I’ve only just started. As soon as you’ve
gone I shall—”
    “That’s a hint,” he cried, laughing. “I’ll go. Ever such good luck to
you…”
    And with a series of terrific explosions he rode off, waving to her at the
corner.
IV
    As the campaign drew to a close it became clear that Philip
would win no easy victory. “Times have changed,” as Kemp