MR BILLIONAIRE CHOICE

distinguish a sort of counter at the other end of the room, where an official sat with several lists and thick books. Men formed

o idea how this 'voting'-thing actually worked

it for the oppressed masses of women who are too lazy to protest themselves! Do it against a

age to my mind: the image of Mr Rikkard Ambrose as he

o believe so! Admittedly, my skin was rather tanned, and my face was rather round with a pe

over and over in my mind. Still, the image of Rikkard Ambrose persisted

a bright yellow waistcoat stopped me. Or maybe he was

enough to make the theory at least possibl

At a dinner party, I had heard the gentlemen once talking about the government introd

ry and vote, you

inched my unc

t and top hat. And it wasn't like he was going to vote. He

of cour

of paper from my pocket and unfolded it. The little man

ll appears to be in order.' He handed the document back to me, and I quickly tugged it back into my pocket. 'Please continue, Mr Br

as fin

actice of putting pictures of people in passports. I might be able to pass for a man by putting on a pair of trousers and a top hat

voter by voter. In that way, I slowly approached the counter, getting more nervous with every passing minute. How exactly did y

around, though. They just bent as if to write someth

e official behind the counter. He held out a piece of paper, on which t

e,' he said, his voice

prised. 'Do you mean anyone will

made out of water. 'Of course. If you're ashamed of your politic

let my nerves show, I shoo

ly here, young man. That's the way it's supposed to be. You'll get none of those absurd new political ideas the Chartists are propos

redi

. Everybody who comes here to vote is a gentleman with a residence in t

my agreement to his political wisdom. The official s

ere, young Sir, depending on whic

fountain pen and immediately mad

Whigs

higs actually support those Chartist extremists and rebels who want votes for the common people. Do you really

see, won't we, Sir,' I sai

The voters, the officials, even a fellow in the corner who looked like he had

he matter

blast! I curtsied! I

~**

nment official put it to the messenger boy who was sent to the police. The boy was obviously impressed wit

iscovered anyway, I might as well use the opportunity and set up an impromptu demonstration for women's rights

n in the middle of London, with the firm assistance of four protectors of the people. Two of the off

yelled. 'Oppresso

ies winced, cov

er?' he asked

inst regulations,' t

ut a stra

ne of those, mo

manhood in no uncertain terms. To my considerable satisfaction they had a great deal of tro

ped a figure I remembered all too well: Rikkard Ambrose, his classical features as hard as ever, his black

just as unmoving as before, but there was a steely glint in his dar

one hand off my arm to salute. My, my. Mr Rikkard Ambrose had to be someone of import

e, but immediately the sergeant stopped salut

t attention while not loosening his grip on yours truly. 'U

of his hand, Mr Am

Are you blind? What ar

at and pulled it off, so my chestnut bob cut was freed and

ibly the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life. His stone face slackened a

geant shrugged, and made an awkward little bow. 'Well, if you'd excuse us, Sir, we have to take this one,' he nodded at me like

voting? Who ever heard of something like that?

nd started dragging me to a police c

ent, I made

though he was already a dozen yards away, and the Bobbies dragged me further and further, I could see his stone face

o seeing you at wo