her than offences against the
election laws, he holds in utter contempt. Indeed, he says with a good
deal of truth, that as fighting is become the all necessary
qualification of our Senators and Representatives to Congress, he thinks
of offering himself for the next vacancy. The only rival he fears is
"handsome Charley."[2] The accommodations are not what they might be,
but, being exempt from rent and other items necessary to a prominent
politician, he accepts them as a matter of economy.

[Footnote 2: An election bully, the ugliest man in Charleston, and the
deadly foe of Mingle.]

The vote-cribber is sure of being set free on the approach of an
election. We may as well confess it before the world--he is an
indispensable adjunct to the creating, of Legislators, Mayors,
Congressmen, and Governors. Whiskey is not more necessary to the
reputation of our mob-politicians than are the physical powers of Milman
Mingle to the success of the party he honors with his services. Nor do
his friends scruple at consulting him on matters of great importance to
the State while in his prison sanctuary.

"I'm out to-morrow, parson," he resumes; the massive fingers of his
right hand wandering into his crispy, red beard, and again over his
scarred face. "Mayor's election comes off two weeks from
Friday--couldn't do without me--can knock down any quantity of men--you
throw a plumper, I take it?" The young Missionary answers in the
negative by shaking his head, while the kind old sailor continues to
fuss over and prepare Tom for his departure. "Tom is about to leave us,"
says the old sailor, by way of diverting the vote-cribber's attention.
That dignitary, so much esteemed by our fine old statesmen, turns to
Tom, and inquires if he has a vote.

Tom has a vote, but declares he will not give it to the vote-cribber's
party. The politician says "p'raps," and draws from his bosom a small
flask. "Whiskey, Tom," he says,--"no use offering it to parsons, eh? (he
casts an insinuating look at the parson.) First-chop election whiskey--a
sup and we're friends until I get you safe under the lock of my crib.
Our Senators to Congress patronize this largely." The forlorn freeman,
with a look of contempt for the man who thus upbraids him, dashes the
drug upon the floor, to the evident chagrin of the politician, who, to
conceal his feelings, turns to George Mulholland, and mechanically
inquires if _he_ has a vote. Being answered in the negative, he picks