rving 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