“Mosey’s tenantry are droll boys; and like their landlord, more by token, they never pay any rent.”
“And what for shouldn’t they vote?” said a dry-looking little old fellow in a red waistcoat; “when I was the dead agent—”
“The dead agent!” interrupted Sir George, with a start.
“Just so,” said the old fellow, pulling down his spectacles from his forehead, and casting a half-angry look at Sir George, for what he had suspected to be a doubt of his veracity.
“The general does not know, may be, what that is,” said some one.
“You have just anticipated me,” said Sir George; “I really am in most profound ignorance.”
“It is the dead agent,” says Mr. Blake, “who always provides substitutes for any voters that may have died since the last election. A very important fact in statistics may thus be gathered from the poll-books of this county, which proves it to be the healthiest part of Europe,—a freeholder has not died in it for the last fifty years.”
“The ‘Kiltopher boys’ won’t come this time; they say there’s no use trying to vote when so many were transported last assizes for perjury.”
“They’re poor-spirited creatures,” said another.
“Not they,—they are as decent boys as any we have; they’re willing to wreck the town for fifty shillings’ worth of spirits. Besides, if they don’t vote for the county, they will for the borough.”