with his coat off; and now the coat is on again (broadcloth but ill-
fitting), for there is no more to do but await results. He is
standing for Parliament, and this is election night.

As the scene discloses itself you get, so to speak, one of John
Shand's posters in the face. Vote for Shand. Shand, Shand, Shand.
Civil and Religious Liberty, Faith, Hope, Freedom. They are all fly-
blown names for Shand. Have a placard about Shand, have a hundred
placards about him, it is snowing Shand to-night in Glasgow; take the
paste out of your eye, and you will see that we are in one of Shand's
committee rooms. It has been a hairdresser's emporium, but Shand,
Shand, Shand has swept through it like a wind, leaving nothing but
the fixtures; why shave, why have your head doused in those basins
when you can be brushed and scraped and washed up for ever by simply
voting for Shand?

There are a few hard chairs for yelling Shand from, and then rushing
away. There is an iron spiral staircase that once led to the ladies'
hairdressing apartments, but now leads to more Shand, Shand, Shand. A
glass door at the back opens on to the shop proper, screaming Civil
and Religious Liberty, Shand, as it opens, and beyond is the street
crammed with still more Shand pro and con. Men in every sort of garb
rush in and out, up and down the stair, shouting the magic word. Then
there is a lull, and down the stair comes Maggie Wylie, decidedly
overdressed in blue velvet and (let us get this over) less good-
looking than ever. She raises her hands to heaven, she spins round
like a little teetotum. To her from the street, suffering from a
determination of the word Shand to the mouth, rush Alick and David.
Alick is thinner (being older), David is stouter (being older), and
they are both in tweeds and silk hats.]