“I have the honor to be, sir, your faithful and obedient servant,

“Francis Fathom.

“To Major Vanston, &c, &c.”

Hycy, having perused these documents, re-sealed them in such a manner as to evade all suspicion of their having been opened.

“Now,” thought he, “what is to be done?  Upon the strength of this, it is possible I may succeed in working up M’Mahon to vote for Vanston; for I know into what an enthusiasm of gratitude the generous fool will be thrown by them.  If he votes for Vanston, I gain several points.  First and foremost, the round some of three hundred.  If I can get his vote, I establish my own veracity, which, as matters stand, will secure Vanston the election; I, also, having already secretly assured the Tory gentleman that I could secure him, or rather, I can turn my lie into truth, and make Vanston my friend.  Secondly, knowing as I do, that it was by Harry Clinton’s advice the clod-hopper went to him, I can shift the odium of his voting for Vanston upon that youth’s shoulders, whose body, by the way, does not contain a single bone that I like; and, thirdly, having by his apostacy and treachery, as it will be called, placed an insurmountable barrier between himself and the divine Katsey, I will change my course with Jemmy, the gentleman—­my sarcastic dad—­return and get reconciled with that whelp of a brother of mine, and by becoming a good Christian, and a better Catholic, I have no doubt but I shall secure the ‘Ox-eyed,’ as I very happily named her the other morning.  This, I think, will be making the most of the cards, and, as the moment is critical, I shall seek the clod-hopper and place this seasonable communication in his hands.”

He accordingly rode rapidly into town again, where he had not been many minutes when he met M’Mahon, burning with indignation at the language of his landlord and the agent.

“I cannot have patience, Hycy,” he exclaimed, “under such scoundrelly language as this; and while I have breath in my body, he never shall have my vote!”

“What’s the matter, Bryan?” he asked; “you seem flushed.”

“I do, Hycy, because I am flushed, and not without reason.  I tell you that my landlord, Chevydale, is a scoundrel, and Fethertonge a deceitful villain.”

“Pooh, man, is that by way of information?  I thought you had something in the shape of novelty to tell me.  What has happened, however, and why are you in such a white heat of indignation?”

M’Mahon immediately detailed the conversation which he had overheard behind the bar of the inn, and we need scarcely assure our readers that Hycy did not omit the opportunity of throwing oil upon the fire which blazed so strongly.

“Bryan,” said he, “I know the agent to be a scoundrel, and what is nearer the case still, I have every reason—­but you must not ask me to state them yet,—­I have every reason to suspect that it is Fethertonge, countenanced by Chevydale, who is at the bottom of the distillation affair that has ruined you.  The fact is, they are anxious to get you out of Ahadarra, and thought that by secretly ruining you, they could most plausibly effect it.”