Courtier tripped and fell.

The pony, passing over, struck him on the head with a hoof.

For a moment he lost consciousness; then coming to himself, refused assistance, and went to his hotel.

He felt very giddy, and, after bandaging a nasty cut, lay down on his bed.
Miltoun, returning from that necessary exhibition of himself, the crowning fact, at every polling centre, found time to go and see him.
"That last poster of yours!" Courtier began, at once.
"I'm having it withdrawn." "It's done the trick--congratulations--you'll get in!" "I knew nothing of it." "My dear fellow, I didn't suppose you did." "When there is a desert, Courtier, between a man and the sacred city, he doesn't renounce his journey because he has to wash in dirty water on the way: The mob--how I loathe it!" There was such pent-up fury in those words as to astonish even one whose life had been passed in conflict with majorities.
"I hate its mean stupidities, I hate the sound of its voice, and the look on its face--it's so ugly, it's so little.

Courtier, I suffer purgatory from the thought that I shall scrape in by the votes of the mob.