years in matters political its owner had been completely at fault.
At the last General Election, some six years ago, the U. P.—profanely called the Stunt Press—had declared for John Endor, then a tyro and greenhorn new to political life under modern conditions. He had been returned to parliament in consequence by a big majority. This time, however, the boot was on the other leg. "Endor must go."
The member for Blackhampton East had much to say to Sir Munt, and he said it cogently. The two men were singularly unlike. Endor, a highly civilized man of liberal ideas, was consumed with a desire to leave the world a little better than he found it. Sir Josiah, on the other hand, had not been born to social advantages. Entirely self-educated he had made his way by mother wit and force of will; but like so many of his kind, to whom life had brought prosperity, he too, had a regard for the body politic. In Sir Munt the vein of idealism which ennobled John Endor was conspicuously lacking. He had seen too much of the ugly side of life to have any great hopes of human nature. All the same he was a good citizen and a very honest man. Rough he might be, on the surface, but his hand was often in his pocket; and he grudged neither time nor trouble in grappling with the eternal problem of the Under Dog.
"You tell me, Mr. Endor," said Sir Munt, looking at his visitor in what he would have himself described as "an old-fashioned way," "you tell me, sir, that the
