n
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.

Cold meats, bread, cheese, and crackers, and a bountiful supply of bad
whiskey, are spread over a table in the centre of the room; while the
pale light of two small lamps, suspended from the ceiling, throws a
curious shadow over the repulsive features of thirteen forlorn, ragged,
and half-drunken men, sitting here and there round the room, on wooden
benches. You see ignorance and cruelty written in their very
countenances. For nearly three weeks they have not scented the air of
heaven, but have been held here in a despicable bondage. Ragged and
filthy, like Falstaff's invincibles, they will be marched to the polls
to-morrow, and cast their votes at the bid of the cribber. "A happy lot
of fellows," says Mr. Snivel, exultingly. "I have a passion for this
sort of business--am general supervisor of all these cribs, you
understand. We have several of them. Some of these 'drifts' we kidnap,
and some come and be locked up of their own accord--merely for the feed
and drink. We use them, and then snuff them out until we want them
again." Having turned from George, and complimented the vote-cribber for
his skill, he bids him good-night. Together George and the politician
wend their way to an obscure part of the city, and having passed up two
flight of winding stairs, into a large, old-fashioned house on t