necessary to get him up and carry him to his cell.

"To a cell-a cell-a cell!" reiterates the inebriate. "Well, as the
legal gentry say," he continues, "I'll enter a 'non-contender.' I
only say this by way of implication, to show my love for the fellow
who gathers fees by making out writs on my account."

In reply to a question from the jailer, he says they mistake Tom
Swiggs, if they think he has no pride left.

"After all, there's something more in you than I thought, Tom. Give
us your hand," says the vote-cribber, extending cordially his hand,
as if a change for the better had come over him, and grasping firmly
that of the inebriate. Raising his besotted head, Tom gazes
distrustfully at the cribber, as if questioning his sincerity. "I am
not dead to shame," he mutters, struggling at the same time to
suppress his emotions.

"There are, Tom," continues the cribber, playfully, "two claims on
you-two patent claims! (He lets go the inebriate's hand, and begins
teasing his long, red beard.) And, are you disposed to come out on
the square, in the liquor line, you may redeem yourself--"

"Name 'em!" interposed Tom, stopping short in his tune.

"The gentleman commonly called Mister Jones, and a soap-chandler,
are contesting a claim upon you. The one wants your body, the other
your clothes. Now, as I am something of a lawyer, having had large
dealings in elections, I may say, as a friend, that it is only a
question of time, so far as you are concerned. Take my advice, then,