The interior Quigg, of whom the professor had spoken so hopefully, was still undeveloped.  The professor’s views of Quigg’s head had, however, made a deep impression upon the owner of it, and had given to Quigg’s ordinary observations on the weather, the state of his health, and the other familiar topics to which his remarks were principally addressed, an oracular importance in his own opinion.  Such were the deceptive effects produced by his large, polished brow, and slow, imposing speech, that he always seemed to be on the point of uttering vital truths.  But the listener’s ear ached in vain for them.

Quigg put on his overcoat, took a small glass of bitters from a bottle kept behind the large mirror, locked up the store, proceeded to the nearest restaurant, hastily despatched a lean, unsatisfactory chop and a cup of weak tea, gave a half dime to the waiter who bade him, in a loud and significant voice, “Happy New Year, sir,” and then returning found the double sleigh punctual to appointment.

It was a swan-shaped vehicle, brightly painted, thickly covered with buffalo robes, and drawn by two high-stepping horses, which tossed their heads and shook their bells merrily as if they shared in the prevailing jovialty of the day.

On the front seat, and nearly filling up the whole width of the sleigh, sat the driver.  His shoulders were broad enough for two men; his legs and arms were of twice the common size, and he had two well-defined chins.  He seemed to be double in all his dimensions, like the sleigh.

“Hallo, Quigg!” said the driver, in a voice of double strength, snapping his whip playfully at that gentleman as he approached.

“Hallo to you, Cap,” returned Quigg, pleasantly.  “It is a very fine day.  I guess there will be a great many calls made.”  Quigg uttered these words slowly, as if they were precious, and he hated to part with them.

“Shouldn’t wonder,” answered Cap, which was a short name for Captain (nobody knew of what), and added, without any apparent sequence of ideas:  “I s’pose you’re goin’ to take some brandy along, old fellow?  It’s hardly fair for me to be sittin’ into the cold outside, with nothin’ to drink, while you chaps are drinkin’ your champagne punch before a warm fire.”

Mr. Quigg reflected a moment, as one who reckons up profit and loss.  He then said: 

“A good idea, Cap.  Brandy is not a bad thing on a cold day.”  He spoke with impressive solemnity.

“Or any other day,” added the driver.  “Partickley ’lection day.  Leastways, such was the ’pinion of the voters into my ward, last December, when I run for School Inspector, you know.  Unfortunately, I didn’t know the ropes then; and thought, when I got the nomination, I was sure to be ’lected.  My ’ponent issued tickets for free drinks at all the rum mills into the ward.  I didn’t find out his game till about two o’clock in the afternoon, and then I tried it myself.  But I was too late.  He had six hours’ start of me, and beat me by five hundred drinks—­I mean votes.”