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        Things seemed to be well under control until we reached the main booth in the subdivision of Manly.    This was at the public school, which had entrances from three streets.   Catering for the largest number of voters in the electorate, the Manly School was always a difficult booth to manage.   Now our people were in complete confusion because their posters had failed to arrive.   They had claimed good spots beside the entrances but there were no "decorations" to mark them.

        Peter Randall had the responsibility for arranging delivery of election day material in Manly.   The posters had been pasted onto boards and then    stored in his home.   Nobody had seen him yet that morning.   And, to make mattters worse, rain had started spitting down.   

         We jumped back into the Holden and headed for Randall's house behind the shop on Pittwater Road.   It was ten minutes to eight:   People were moving towards the booths and Soon they would be voting.

        Standing in the rain, I hammered on Randall's front door.   There was no immediate response.   Stooping down, I picked up the damp copy of the  Manly  Daily  which was lying on the step.   My own had been forgotten in the rush to the booths.   Turning to the editorial, I was stunned by the uncharacteristic message it proclaimed:


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