exercised upon the effects-whiskey, cold ham, crackers and cheese-of the vote-cribber, whom he regards as a sort of cold-hearted land-lubber, whose political friends outside were not what they should be.  If the vote-cribber’s aristocratic friends (and South Carolina politicians were much given to dignity and bad whiskey) sent him luxuries that tantalized the appetites of poverty-oppressed debtors, and poor prisoners starving on a pound of bread a-day, Spunyarn held this a legitimate plea for holding in utter contempt the right to such gifts.  And what was more singular of this man was, that he always knew the latitude and longitude of the vote-cribber’s bottle, and what amount of water was necessary to keep up the gauge he had reduced in supplying his flask.

And now that Tom’s almost hopeless condition presents a warrantable excuse, (the vote-cribber has this moment passed into the cell to take a cursory glance at Tom,) Spunyarn slips nimbly into the vote-cribber’s cell, withdraws a brick from the old chimney, and seizing the black neck of a blacker bottle, drags it forth, holds it in the shadow of the doorway, squints exultingly at the contents, shrugs his stalwart shoulders, and empties a third of the liquid, which he replaces with water from a bucket near by, into his tin-topped flask.  This done, he ingeniously replaces the bottle, slides the flask suspiciously into his bosom, saying, “It’ll taste just as strong to a vote-cribber,” and seeks that greasy potentate, the prison cook.  This dignitary has always laid something aside for Spunyarn; he knows Spunyarn has something laid aside for him, which makes the condition mutual.

“A new loafer let loose on the world!” says the vote-cribber, entering the domain of the inebriate with a look of fierce scorn.  “The State is pestered to death with such things as you.  What do they send you here for?-disturbing the quiet and respectability of the prison!  You’re only fit to enrich the bone-yard-hardly that; perhaps only for lawyers to get fees of.  The State ’ll starve you, old Hardscrabble ’ll make a few dollars out of your feed-but what of that?  We don’t want you here.”  There was something so sullen and mysterious in the coarse features of this stalwart man-something so revolting in his profession, though it was esteemed necessary to the elevation of men seeking political popularity-something so at variance with common sense in the punishment meted out to him who followed it, as to create a deep interest in his history, notwithstanding his coldness towards the inebriate.  And yet you sought in vain for one congenial or redeeming trait in the character of this man.

“I always find you here; you’re a fixture, I take it—­”

The vote-cribber interrupts the inebriate—­“Better have said a patriot!”

“Well,” returns the inebriate, “a patriot then; have it as you like it.  I’m not over-sensitive of the distinction.”  The fallen man drops his head into his hands, stabbed with remorse, while the vote-cribber folds his brawny arms leisurely, paces to and fro before him, and scans him with his keen, gray eyes, after the manner of one mutely contemplating an imprisoned animal.