With Wyll and Cheeryup back in the library and watching the front desk, Dorro made plans to see the Mayor’s speech at noon. The chief magistrate of Thimble Down was up for reelection—maybe his twelfth or thirteenth term—and was ever the commanding orator, even if he was also a sneaky weasel.
The Mayor was only ever interested in his own welfare and didn’t care two hoots for populace at large; fortunately for him, no one ever rose to challenge his vice-grip on the village. For all his shortcomings, he was a brilliant politician and knew how build networks and alliances throughout Thimble Down, notably among its merchants and business leaders.
The Mayor was less popular with the farmers that surrounded the village, but that’s because they never did anything for him or vice-versa. Thus when elections rolled around, the leader was able to call in all the favors he’d been doling out and lock in votes before even starting the campaign.
As Dorro arrived to the site of the Mayor’s speech near the Bumbling Badger tavern, he noticed a lectern hastily mounted on the back of a wagon and a crowd beginning to swell. At noon on the dot, Thimble Down’s wealthiest citizen, Osgood Thrip (newly returned from his family’s exile in Water-Down), mounted the cart and snorted loudly to get everyone’s attention.
“Hear, hear! Halflings of Thimble Down—this is your hour!” he began with overt theatrics. “Today, we begin the campaign for the Mayorship of our fair hamlet, between our fine Mayor and any contestants that may emerge today.”
By now, over a hundred Thimble Downers were present, all jostling each other and grumbling about this and that. Few were actually listening to Osgood Thrip and many were complaining that the speech was keeping them from their lunch. In fact, you could hear more than a few stomachs rumbling.
“… as I was saying,” continued Thrip, “Our esteemed Mayor is about to address you today. But before that, I want to ask you good folks of Thimble Down if there is anyone who plans to join the race this year. You’ll need two nominations and the support of the crowd. Is there anyone? Anyone at all? No, well that’s fine, we’ll just carry on …”
“Oy!” came a loud voice from the crowd. “You hold on there, Mr. Osgood Thrip! Always in a rush, pushin’ people around and not letting them think things out. I know something about that, I do!”
Pushing his way through the mob was Mr. Mungo, the venerable tavern keeper of the Hanging Stoat. The big Halfling was red in the face and puffing heavily, but he kept pushing his way forward until he stood next to the wagon and spoke up. “I … [wheeze!] … hereby nominate … [gasp!] … my lovely wife Farmer Edythe … [puff!] … to be the next Mayor of Thimble Down!”
There was a cheer in the audience, as everyone loved a good race and glad they didn’t have to listen to the Mayor dawdle on with his vague promises and lies. “I second the nomination!” came another voice from the throng. The Halflings all turned their heads to see who had dared to speak up. Even Osgood Thrip scanned the motley assemblage looking for the source, but stopped and frowned.
“The nomination of Farmer Edythe has been made by Mr. Mungo and seconded by Bog the Blacksmith,” sneered Thrip. “However, Mungo’s nomination is null and void owing to the fact that he is the candidate’s husband. No relations can nominate their kin!” A sly grin stole over Osgood’s face.
The crowd of Thimble Downers all started shouting and grousing at the technicality, with more than a few “Boos!” ringing out and echoing down the burrow-lined lane. “I’m sorry, but rules are rules,” said Thrip in a deep basso voice.
“In that case, I nominate Farmer Edythe for mayor. I do so with great joy and think she would make a fine leader for our village!”
Again, there was a mad uproar from the citizens, necks turning left and right to find the speaker who dared to challenge Thrip. He too scanned the crowd, a nasty snarl on his face. “Who said that?” he roared. “I demand to know who made that nomination.”
A figure on the periphery of the crowd stood up on a wooden box, puffing on his pipe. It was a tall, soft-middled Halfling with tousled brown hair and wearing a reasonably posh jacket and waistcoat.
“I said it.”
“Why’s it’s Mr. Dorro!” crowed half a dozen village folk, in quiet awe. “It’s the bookmaster! Good on ye, sir!”
Slowly, the tremor rippled through the crowd, building until it reached a deafening round of applause. His snarl became a horrible grimace, and to restore order Osgood Thrip pulled out a wooden hammer and began banging on the lecture. “Hear, hear!” he shouted in his formidably loud voice. “I regret to say that … [sigh] …Mr. Dorro’s nomination of Farmer Edythe is perfectly legal and binding, as is Bog the Blacksmith’s seconding. I hereby announce that Farmer Edythe will challenge the Mayor in the upcoming election.”
The crowd exploded into a frenzy of joy, as they knew this would be an excellent contest and would require many hours in the pubs and taverns of Thimble Down discussing the merits of each candidate. That these discussions would further entail the downing many mugs of ale and pipefuls of Old Nob weed was incidental; this was serious politics and required such actions. If consuming a plateful of chops or two were a further requirement, so be it.
By now, the village folk were cheering and dancing all over the lane, so much so that they forgot about the Mayor’s speech and set off for the nearest tavern to slake their thirsts. As for the poor Mayor, he arrived at the scene only minutes later, only to find an empty lane, a wagon with a lectern atop, and a morose-looking Osgood Thrip next to the wagon, his face buried in his hands.
“Say, Osgood,” asked the Mayor, “Did I come at the wrong time? Where is my crowd of jolly supporters?”
Thrip merely looked up at the Mayor, rolled his eyes, and shook his head whilst he stepped away. The Mayor stood there baffled, looking more a fool than usual.