ll-nigh create in
her mind a resolve to give the amount she had struggled to get and set
apart for the benefit of those two institutions ("the Tract Society,"
and "The Home of the Foreign Missions"), all to the getting himself off
to Antioch.

CHAPTER XXI.

MR. SNIVEL PURSUES HIS SEARCH FOR THE VOTE-CRIBBER.

While Mrs. Swiggs is being entertained by Sister Scudder and her
clerical friends in New York, Mr. Snivel is making good his demand on
her property in Charleston. As the agent of Keepum, he has attached her
old slaves, and what few pieces of furniture he could find; they will in
a few days be sold for the satisfaction of her debts. Mrs. Swiggs, it
must be said, never had any very nice appreciation of debt-paying,
holding it much more legitimate that her creditors accept her dignity in
satisfaction of any demand they chanced to have against her. As for her
little old house, the last abode of the last of the great Swiggs
family,--that, like numerous other houses of our "very first families,"
is mortgaged for more than it is worth, to Mr. Staple the grocer. We
must, however, turn to Mr. Snivel.

Mr. Snivel is seen, on the night after the secret interview at the
Charleston Hotel, in a happy mood, passing down King street. A little,
ill-featured man, with a small, but florid face, a keen, lecherous eye,
leans on his arm. They are in earnest conversation.

"I think the mystery is nearly cleared up, Keepum" says Snivel.

"There seems no getting a clue to the early history of this Madame
Montford, 'tis true. Even those who introduced her to Charleston society
know nothing of her beyond a certain period. All anterior to that is
wrapped in suspicion," returns Keepum, fingering his massive gold chain
and seals, that pend from his vest, then releasing his hold of Mr.
Snivel's arm, and commencing to button closely his blue dress coat,
which is profusely decorated with large gilt buttons. "She's the mother
of the dashing harlot, or I'm no prophet, nevertheless," he concludes,
shaking his head significantly.

"You may almost swear it--a bad conscience is a horrid bore; d--n me, if
I can't see through the thing. (Mr. Snivel laughs.) Better put our
female friends on their guard, eh?"

"They had better drop her as quietly as possible," rejoins Mr. Keepum,
drawing his white glove from off his right hand, and extending his cigar
case.

Mr. Snivel having helped himself to a cigar, says: "D--n me, if she
didn't faint