In a curtained box, at the St. Charles, sits Mr. Snivel and George Mullholland-the latter careworn and downcast of countenance.  “Let us finish this champaign, my good fellow,” says the politician, emptying his glass.  “A man-I mean one who wants to get up in the world-must, like me, have two distinct natures.  He must have a grave, moral nature-that is necessary to the affairs of State.  And he must, to accommodate himself to the world (law and society, I mean), have a terribly loose nature-a perfect quicksand, into which he can drag everything that serves himself.  You have seen how I can develop both these, eh?” The downcast man shakes his head, as the politician watches him with a steady gaze.  “Take the advice of a friend, now, let the Judge alone-don’t threaten again to shoot that girl.  Threats are sometimes dragged in as testimony against a man (Mr. Snivel taps George admonishingly on the arm); and should anything of a serious nature befall her-the law is curious-why, what you have said might implicate you, though you were innocent.”

“You,” interrupts George, “have shot your man down in the street.”

“A very different affair, George.  My position in society protects me.  I am a member of the Jockey-Club, a candidate for the State Senate—­a Justice of the Peace—­yes, a politician!  You are—­Well, I was going to say-nothing!  We regard northerners as enemies; socially, they are nothing.  Come, George, come with me.  I am your best friend.  You shall see the power in my hands.”  The two men saunter out together, pass up a narrow lane leading from King Street, and are soon groping their way up the dark stairway of an old, neglected-looking wooden building, that for several years has remained deserted by everything but rats and politicians,—­one seeming to gnaw away at the bowels of the nation, the other at the bowels of the old building.  Having ascended to the second floor, Mr. Snivel touches a spring, a suspicious little trap opens, and two bright eyes peer out, as a low, whispering voice inquires, “Who’s there?” Mr. Snivel has exchanged the countersign, and with his companion is admitted into a dark vestibule, in which sits a brawny guardsman.

“Cribs are necessary, sir-I suppose you never looked into one before?”

George, in a voice discovering timidity, says he never has.

“You must have cribs, and crib-voters; they are necessary to get into high office-indeed, I may say, to keep up with the political spirit of the age.”  Mr. Snivel is interrupted by the deep, coarse voice of Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber, whose broad, savage face looks out at a small guard trap.  “All right,” he says, recognizing Mr. Snivel.  Another minute, and a door opens into a long, sombre-looking room, redolent of the fumes of whiskey and tobacco.  “The day is ours.  We’ll elect our candidate, and then my election is certain; naturalized thirteen rather green ones to-day-to-morrow they will be trump cards.  Stubbs has attended to the little matter of the ballot-boxes.”  Mr. Snivel gives the vote-cribber’s hand a warm shake, and turns to introduce his friend.  The vote-cribber has seen him before.  “There are thirteen in,” he says, and two more he has in his eye, and will have in to-night, having sent trappers out for them.