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I was standing in the principal polling-station at one time, when a gentleman called Hoppett, a cobbler by persuasion I think I have already mentioned him as the benignant individual who used to come to the door of his establishment and pursue me with curses down the street came out from recording his vote.
"I do," replied the official. "Is it not a fact that he has annulled his vote by making unnecessary marks on his voting-paper?" continued Robin solemnly. "That is so," assented the Returning Officer. "I'm afraid your vote won't count this time, Mr Hoppett. Good morning!" There was a roar of delighted laughter from friend and foe, and the fermenting Hoppett was cast forth.
There was the hammock to fetch, too. But it was a dreary little visit. He went round as he was, his hands deep in his pockets, trying to whistle between his teeth and smoke simultaneously; and he had to hold his pipe in his hand out of respect for rules, as he conversed with the stately Mr. Hoppett in Trinity gateway. Mr.
Hoppett knew nothing about any saddle at least, not for public communication but his air of deep and diplomatic suspiciousness belied his words. "It's all right," said Jack pleasantly, "I had nothing to do with the elopement. The Dean knows all about it." "I know nothing about that, sir," said Mr. Hoppett judicially. "Then you've not got the saddle?" "I have not, sir."
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