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hand.   In a confidential tone, he explained:

        "You may need this.   It contains details of my electorate office.   Good luck!" And then he was gone.   (The envelope contained information on the lease of the office, telephone numbers, and forwarding addresses for Darby and his former secretary.   Afterwards I learned that George Ashley had not received a similar envelope from Darby.)

        At Harbord Public School, George McKay, supervisor of my postgraduate research and now acting as booth Captain , reported a spirited battle with the Libs.   

        "Oh, by th way," he said in his dry Scots manner.   "Yesterday I   put you down to transfer to the part-time postgraduate list.   You are going to have a few extra things to do now."

        We completed our circuit at the Literary Institute just as the final rush of voters started in the gathering darkness, a few minutes before six.   Our scrutineers disappeared inside and the doors closed exactly on the hour.

        One way or another, the voters had made their decision. Inside the building, on wooden folding tables, little piles of paper would start to grow beside the candidates names.

        As a scrutineer at previous elections, I had stood in front of the table and watched the votes counted by hand - the crude but fundamental process in determining  

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