The Widow's Demise by Don Gutteridge Page B

gave him but a desultory
glance as he walked over to the bar.
    “I’ll have a flagon of ale,” he said to the
barkeeper, a florid, fleshy man with mean eyes and a superficial
smile. “Right you are. In from the farm, then, are you?”
    “On my way to the store in Danby’s
Crossing.”
    “It could be crowded up there,” the
barkeeper, who was Murphy himself, said.
    “Oh, how’s that?” Snow did his best to sound
nonchalant.
    “The poll’s at Danby’s, didn’t you know?”
    “Politics don’t interest me much.”
    Murphy smiled. “You’re a rare bird in these
parts, then.”
    Snow took a great swig of ale, enough to
quench his thirst, and Murphy moved away to serve another customer.
Snow was just draining his flagon when he felt someone come up and
sit beside him.
    “On your way to the poll?” the fellow
said.
    Snow turned to look at the interloper. “Not
really. I’m headin’ fer the store at Danby’s Crossing.”
    The fellow was short and wiry, with sharply
chiselled features and beady, brown eyes. When he smiled he flashed
a set of brilliant white teeth. He was well dressed, certainly not
a farmer.
    “I can smell a voter a mile away. No need to
fret, though, I’m not workin’ for either of the parties. Just an
interested citizen.”
    “I see, but you’re mistaken about me, I’m
afraid.”
    “Then I do apologize. My name’s Rutherford,
D’Arcy Rutherford.”
    Snow automatically put out his hand. “John
Snow,” he said.
    “I’m a salesman, not a pedlar, mind you, but
a bona fide salesman. I peddle cigars and good wine to the taverns
in this part of the province.”
    “A worthy occupation, I’m sure,” Snow said to
be friendly.
    “I notice your cup is empty, sir. May I have
the privilege of buying you another?”
    “Why, that’s kind of you. I’m in the mood fer
another.”
    “A flagon of ale, barkeep, for my new friend
here.”
    As the two men drank their ale, Rutherford
regaled Snow with stories from his travels. Snow turned out to be a
good listener. Another ale was ordered. Snow tried to pay for it,
but Rutherford wouldn’t hear of it.
    “You’d be surprised at the kind of dives I
find myself in from time to time, John. Why, I remember one not too
far up Yonge Street that had one window with no glass and a hole in
the roof for the smoke to make its way into the fresh air. There
certainly was none of that in the interior. You can imagine my
surprise when the proprietor orders a case of French wine and ten
boxes of Cuban cigars. Like I always say, you can’t tell a dive by
its door.”
    Snow nodded his agreement. He was beginning
to feel decidedly mellow, but the poll would be open all day. He
was in no hurry. And another ale had appeared suddenly before
him.
    “I say a pox on both parties,” Rutherford was
saying now. Snow couldn’t remember when or how the subject had
turned to politics. “What have the Tories ever done for us, eh?
Except to lead us straight to revolution and economic stagnation.
Then along come the Reformers, preaching a new gospel. But what
good did they do, the first time they were in power? They gave us
fire-breathing radicals like Willie Mackenzie. And what are they up
to in the new Parliament? Makin’ pacts with the Devil, that’s what.
Gettin’ in bed with French rebels who should be in jail not the
Legislature. And what is the final result? The greatest rebel of
them all, Louis LaFontaine, is put up as our candidate by none
other than Robert Baldwin himself. Who can you trust, eh? No-one.
And I’m sure glad you’re not going to Danby’s to vote. You’ve made
the right decision.”
    “But – but I thought I’d vote sometime,” Snow
managed to say in a slurred fashion.
    “What’s the point? Any right-thinking citizen
would protest by not casting his vote. I took you for a perceptive
man. Another ale?”
    Another ale appeared, as if in a haze. Snow’s
head felt too heavy for his body. He wanted to lay it on the bar.
And sleep . . .
    It