There is an inert aristocracy, a love of distinction, among the lowest dregs of society, as there is also a love of plush and other insignificant tawdry among our more wealthy republicans. Few would have thought of one inebriate affecting superiority over another, (the vote-cribber was an inebriate, as we shall show,) but so it was, nevertheless.
"I own up," rejoins Tom, "I own up; I love my mother, and am out of sorts. You may call me a mass of filth-what you please!"
"Never mind; I am your friend, Tom," interrupts the brusque old jailer, stooping down and taking him gently by the arm. "Good may come of the worst filth of nature-evil may come of what seemeth the best; and trees bearing sound pippins may have come of rotten cores. Cheer up!"
The cool and unexpected admonition of the "vote-cribber" leaves a deep impression in Tom's feelings. He attempts, heaving a sigh, to rise, but has not strength, and falls languidly back upon the floor. His countenance, for a few moments, becomes dark and desponding; but the kind words that fall from the jailer's lips inspire him with confidence; and, turning partly on his side, he thrusts his begrimed hands into a pair of greasy pockets, whistling "Yankee Doodle," with great composure.
The jailer glances about him for assistance, saying it will be 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.