He said that formerly the
average voter flung everything into the waste-basket and went to the
polls simply on the strength of party prejudice fortified by the
glamour of a torchlight procession, but that now he read and thought,
and refused to support the party candidate merely because he was the
party candidate. He deluged the community with copies of my letter of
acceptance, and three days later overwhelmed the postal service with a
batch of circulars embodying a short, pithy description of my personal
virtues and talents, interwoven with sound doctrine. Although he
confided to me that torchlight organizations were moribund factors in
political warfare, he advised me to supply uniforms and torches, and a
promise of abundant cigars, ice-cream, and ginger-beer for the
cementation of a band of youthful warriors eager to call themselves the
"Fourth District Reform Cadets." "There is not more than one voter in
twenty among them," said Nick, "but it will please their fathers, and
do no harm in any event, especially as your wife and I have devised a
costume for them that will drive the Spinney Guards under cover with
jealousy."
The costume in question was a pattern of garish ingenuity: white
bearskin caps with red, white, and blue pompons; bright blue blouses
dashed with white, and white leather belts, and red zouave
knickerbockers.
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