He was a tall, finely built man, and as he looked down on the carriage,
and on Tressady leaning over the window, the light from a street-lamp
near showed a handsome face blanched with excitement and fatigue.

"Now, my friends," he said, raising his arm, and addressing the crowd,
"you let Sir George go home to his dinner. He's beaten us, and so far as
I know _he's_ fought fair, whatever some of his friends may have done for
him. I'm going home to have a bite of something and a wash. I'm done. But
if any of you like to come round to the club--eight o'clock--I'll tell
you a thing or two about this election. Now goodnight to you, Sir George.
We'll beat you yet, trust us. Fall back there!"

He pointed peremptorily to the men holding the horses. They and the crowd
instantly obeyed him.

The carriage swept on, followed by the hooting and groans of the whole
community, men, women, and children, who were now massed along the street
on either hand.

"It's easy to see this man Gregson's a new hand," said Fontenoy, with an
accent of annoyance, as they got clear of the village. "I believe the
Wattons have only just imported him, otherwise he'd never have avoided
Marraby, and come round by Battage."

"Battage has some special connection with Burrows, hasn't it? I had
forgotten."

"Of course. He was check-weigher at the Acme pit here for years, before
they made him district secretary of the union."