himself, who, in fact, was the very individual who had assured Major Vanston, and those who canvassed for him, that he himself had secured Bryan.  On hearing now from Bryan that Kathleen had put the issue of their affection upon his political truth and consistency he resolved to avail himself of that circumstance if he could.  On hearing, besides, however, that Harry Clinton had actually sent him (M’Mahon) to Vanston, and on being told, in the course of conversation, that that gentleman asked who had drawn up the memorial, he felt that every circumstance was turning in his favor; for he determined now to saddle Clinton with the odium which, in this treacherous transaction, was most likely to fall upon himself.

It is not our intention here to describe the brutal and disgraceful scenes that occur at an election.  It is enough to say that, after a long, bitter, and tedious struggle, the last day of it arrived.  Bryan M’Mahon, having fully satisfied himself that his landlord had not taken a single step to promote his interests in the matter of the memorial, resolved from the beginning not to vote in his favor, and, of course, not to vote at all.

On the morning of the last day, with the exception of himself alone, a single voter had not been left unpolled; and the position of the two candidates was very peculiar, both having polled exactly the same number of votes, and both being consequently equal.

Bryan, having left home early, was at breakfast about eleven o’clock, in a little recess off the bar of the head-inn, which was divided from one end of the coffee-room by a thin partition of boards, through which anything spoken in an ordinary tone of voice in that portion of the room could be distinctly heard.  Our readers may judge of his surprise on hearing the following short but pithy dialogue of which he himself formed the subject matter.  The speakers, with whom were assembled several of his landlord’s committee, being no other than that worthy gentleman and his agent.

“What’s to be done?” asked Chevydale; “here is what we call a dead heat.  Can no one prevail on that obstinate scoundrel, the Ahadarra man—­what do ye call, him?  M’Master—­M’Manus—–­M’—­eh?”

“M’Mahon,” replied Fethertonge, “I fear not; but, at all events, we must try him again.  Vote or not, however, we shall soon clear him out of Ahadarra—­we shall punish his insolence for daring to withhold his vote; for, as sure as my name is Fethertonge, out he goes.  The fine and distillation affair, however, will save us a good deal of trouble, and of course I am very glad you declined to have anything to do with the support of his petition.  The fellow is nothing else than shuffler, as I told you.  Vote or not, therefore, out of Ahadarra he goes; and, when he does, I have a good tenant to put in his place.”

M’Mahon’s blood boiled on hearing this language, and he inwardly swore that, let the consequences be what they might, a vote of his should never go to the support of such a man.