“I’m out to-morrow, parson,” he resumes; the massive fingers of his right hand wandering into his crispy, red beard, and again over his scarred face.  “Mayor’s election comes off two weeks from Friday-couldn’t do without me-can knock down any quantity of men-you throw a plumper, I take it?” The young Missionary answers in the negative by shaking his head, while the kind old sailor continues to fuss over and prepare Tom for his departure.  “Tom is about to leave us,” says the old sailor, by way of diverting the vote-cribber’s attention.  That dignitary, so much esteemed by our fine old statesmen, turns to Tom, and inquires if he has a vote.

Tom has a vote, but declares he will not give it to the vote-cribber’s party.  The politician says “p’raps,” and draws from his bosom a small flask.  “Whiskey, Tom,” he says,—­“no use offering it to parsons, eh? (he casts an insinuating look at the parson.) First-chop election whiskey-a sup and we’re friends until I get you safe under the lock of my crib.  Our Senators to Congress patronize this largely.”  The forlorn freeman, with a look of contempt for the man who thus upbraids him, dashes the drug upon the floor, to the evident chagrin of the politician, who, to conceal his feelings, turns to George Mulholland, and mechanically inquires if he has a vote.  Being answered in the negative, he picks up his flask and walks away, saying:  “what rubbish!”

Accompanied by his friends and the old sailor, Tom sallies forth into the atmosphere of sweet freedom.  As the old jailer swings back the outer gate, Spunyarn grasps his friend and companion in sorrow warmly by the hand, his bronzed face brightens with an air of satisfaction, and like pure water gushing from the rude rock his eyes fill with tears.  How honest, how touching, how pure the friendly lisp-good bye!  “Keep up a strong heart, Tom,—­never mind me.  I don’t know by what right I’m kept here, and starved; but I expect to get out one of these days; and when I do you may reckon on me as your friend.  Keep the craft in good trim till then; don’t let the devil get master.  Come and see us now and then, and above all, never give up the ship during a storm.”  Tom’s emotions are too deeply touched.  He has no reply to make, but presses in silence the hand of the old sailor, takes his departure, and turns to wave him an adieu.

CHAPTER XVII.

In which there is an interesting meeting.

Our very chivalric dealers in human merchandise, like philosophers and philanthropists, are composed merely of flesh and blood, while their theories are alike influenced by circumstances.  Those of the first, we (the South) are, at times, too apt to regard as sublimated and refined, while we hold the practices of the latter such as divest human nature of everything congenial.  Nevertheless we can assure our readers that there does not exist a class of men who so much