"And Mosey's tenantry," said another. "I swear, though there's not a freehold registered on the estate, that they'll vote, every mother's son of them, or devil a stone of the court-house they'll leave standing on another."
"And may the Lord look to the returning officer!" said a third, throwing up his eyes.
"Mosey's tenantry are droll boys; and like their landlord, more by token, they never pay any rent."
"And what for shouldn't they vote?" said a dry-looking little old fellow in a red waistcoat; "when I was the dead agent--"
"The dead agent!" interrupted Sir George, with a start.
"Just so," said the old fellow, pulling down his spectacles from his forehead, and casting a half-angry look at Sir George, for what he had suspected to be a doubt of his veracity.
"The general does not know, may be, what that is," said some one.
"You have just anticipated me," said Sir George; "I really am in most profound ignorance."
"It is the dead agent," says Mr. Blake, "who always provides substitutes for any voters that may have died since the last election. A very important fact in statistics may thus be gathered from the poll-books of this county, which proves it to be the healthiest part of Europe,--a freeholder has not died in it for the last fifty years."
"The 'Kiltopher boys' won't come this time; they say there's no use trying to vote when so many were transported last assizes for perjury."
"They're poor-spirited creatures," said another.
"Not they,--they are as decent boys as any we have; they're willing to wreck the town for fifty shillings' worth of spirits. Besides, if they don't vote for the county, they will for the borough."
This declaration seemed to restore these interesting individuals to favor; and now all attention was turned towards Bodkin, who was detailing the plan of a grand attack upon the polling-booths, to be headed by himself. By this time, all the prudence and guardedness of the party had given way; whiskey was in the ascendant, and every bold stroke of election policy, every cunning artifice, every ingenious device, was detailed and applauded in a manner which proved that self-respect was not the inevitable gift of "mountain dew."
The mirth and fun grew momentarily more boisterous, and Miles Bodkin, who had twice before been prevented proposing some toast by a telegraphic signal from the other end of the table, now swore that nothing should prevent him any longer, and rising with a smoking tumbler in his hand, delivered himself as follows:--