astonished Mr. Pickwick.

'Lord bless your heart, sir,' said Sam, 'why where was you half
baptised?--that's nothin', that ain't.'

'Nothing?'said Mr. Pickwick. 'Nothin' at all, Sir,' replied his
attendant. 'The night afore the last day o' the last election here,
the opposite party bribed the barmaid at the Town Arms, to hocus the
brandy-and-water of fourteen unpolled electors as was a-stoppin' in the
house.'

'What do you mean by "hocussing" brandy-and-water?' inquired Mr.
Pickwick.

'Puttin' laud'num in it,' replied Sam. 'Blessed if she didn't send 'em
all to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took
one man up to the booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment,
but it was no go--they wouldn't poll him; so they brought him back, and
put him to bed again.' 'Strange practices, these,' said Mr. Pickwick;
half speaking to himself and half addressing Sam.

'Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own
father, at an election time, in this wery place, Sir,' replied Sam.

'What was that?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'Why, he drove a coach down here once,' said Sam; ''lection time came
on, and he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London.
Night afore he was going to drive up, committee on t' other side sends
for him quietly, and away he goes vith the messenger, who shows him
in;--large room--lots of gen'l'm'n--heaps of papers, pens and ink, and
all that 'ere. "Ah, Mr. Weller," says the gen'l'm'n in the chair, "glad
to see you, sir; how are you?"--"Wery well, thank 'ee, Sir," says
my father; "I hope you're pretty middlin," says he.--"Pretty well,
thank'ee, Sir," says the gen'l'm'n; "sit down, Mr. Weller--pray sit
down, sir." So my father sits down, and he and the gen'l'm'n looks wery
hard at each other. "You don't remember me?" said the gen'l'm'n.--"Can't
say I do," says my father.--"Oh, I know you," says the gen'l'm'n:
"know'd you when you was a boy," says he.--"Well, I don't remember you,"
says my father.--"That's wery odd," says the gen'l'm'n."--"Wery,"
says my father.--"You must have a bad mem'ry, Mr. Weller," says the
gen'l'm'n.--"Well, it is a wery bad 'un," says my father.--"I thought
so," says the gen'l'm'n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and
gammons him about his driving, and gets him into a reg'lar good humour,
and at last shoves a twenty-pound note into his hand. "It's a wery bad
road between this and London," says the gen'l'm'n.