our he was fluctuating between a desire to run away
from the accursed borough, and the shame of taking such a step. The
desire for the seat which had brought him to Percycross had almost
died out amidst the misery of his position. Among all the men of
his party with whom he was associating, there was not one whom he
did not dislike, and by whom he was not snubbed and contradicted.
Griffenbottom, who went through his canvass under circumstances of
coming gout and colchicum with a courage and pertinacity that were
heroic, was painfully cross to every one who was not a voter. "What's
the use of all that d----d nonsense, now?" he said to Sir Thomas the
evening before the nomination day. There were half-a-dozen leading
Conservatives in the room, and Sir Thomas was making a final protest
against bribery. He rose from his chair when so addressed, and left
the room. Never in his life before had he been so insulted. Trigger
followed him to his bedroom, knowing well that a quarrel at this
moment would be absolutely suicidal. "It's the gout, Sir Thomas,"
said Mr. Trigger. "Do remember what he's going through." This was so
true that Sir Thomas returned to the room. It was almost impossible
not to forgive anything in a man who was suffering agonies, but could
still wheedle a voter. There were three conservative doctors with Mr.
Griffenbottom, each of them twice daily; and there was an opinion
prevalent through the borough that the gout would be in his stomach
before the election was over. Sir Thomas did return to the room,
and sat himself down without saying a word. "Sir Thomas," said Mr.
Griffenbottom, "a man with the gout is always allowed a little
liberty."

"I admit the claim," said Sir Thomas, bowing.

"And believe me, I know this game better than you do. It's of no use
saying these things. No man should ever foul his own nest. Give me a
little drop more brandy, Trigger, and then I'll get myself to bed."
When he was gone, they all sang Griffenbottom's praises. In staunch
pluck, good humour, and manly fighting, no man was his superior.
"Give and take,--the English bull-dog all over. I do like old
Griffenbottom," said Spiveycomb, the paper-maker.

On the day of nomination Griffenbottom was carried up on the
hustings. This carrying did him good in the borough; but it should
be acknowledged on his behalf that he did his best to walk. In the
extreme agony of his attack he had to make his speech, and he made
it. The hustings stoo