eagerly about him.

The dejected man gives a struggle, raises himself to his haunches,
and with his coarse, begrimed hands resting on his knees, returns
the salutation of several of his old friends. "This, boys, is the
seventh time," he pursues, as if his scorched brain were tossed on a
sea of fire, "and yet I'm my mother's friend. I love her still-yes,
I love her still!" and he shakes his head, as his bleared eyes fill
with tears. "She is my mother," he interpolates, and again gives
vent to his frenzy: "fellows! bring me brandy-whiskey-rum-anything
to quench this flame that burns me up. Bring it, and when I'm free
of this place of torment, I will stand enough for you all to swim
in."

"Shut your whiskey-pipe. You don't appreciate the respectability of
the company you've got among. I've heard of you," ejaculates a voice
in the crowd of lookers-on.

"What of a citizen are you?" inquires Tom, his head dropping
sleepily.

"A vote-cribber-Milman Mingle by name; and, like yourself, in for
formal reform," retorts the voice. And the burly figure of a red,
sullen-faced man, comes forward, folds his arms, and looks for some
minutes with an air of contempt upon the poor inebriate.

"You're no better than you ought to be," incoherently continues Tom,
raising his glassy eyes as if to sight his seemingly querulous
companion.