Mr. Mingle, the vote-cribber--regarded good authority in such
matters--interposes. He has not the shadow of a doubt but that a
speedy cure can be effected, by his friends drinking the whiskey,
(he will join them, without an objection,) and just letting Tom
smell the glass.

A fifth says, without prejudice to the State of South Carolina, if
he knew Tom's mother, he would honestly recommend her to send him
special minister to Maine. There, drinking is rather an aristocratic
indulgence, enjoyed only on the sly.

Suddenly the poor inebriate gives vent to his frenzy. The color of
his face changes from pale livid to sickly blue; his hands seem more
shrunken and wiry; his body convulses and writhes upon the floor; he
is become more the picture of a wild beast, goaded and aggravated in
his confinement. A narcotic, administered by the hand of the jailer,
produces quiet, and with the assistance of two prisoners is he
raised to his feet, and supported into the corridor, to receive the
benefit of fresh air. Here he remains some twenty minutes, stretched
upon two benches, and eyed sharply by the vote-cribber, who paces in
a circle round him, regarding him with a half suspicious leer, and
twice or thrice pausing to fan his face with the drab felt hat he
carries under his arm.

"A curious mother that sends you here for reform," muses the
vote-cribber; "but he must be a perfect fleshhook on the feelings of
the family."

Send him up into Rogue's Hall," exclaims a deep, sonorous voice,
that echoes along the aisle. The vote-cribber, having paused over