"Because they are so cold and ungrateful," said the General.

"As when, for instance," returned Abel, "the Honorable Watkins Bodley, having faithfully served his constituency, is turned adrift by--by--the people."

He looked at Belch and laughed. The fat nose of the General glistened.

"No, no," said he, "your illustration is at fault. He did not faithfully serve his constituency. He was not sound upon the great Grant question."

The two gentlemen laughed together and filled their glasses.

"No, no," resumed the General, "never forget that the great thing is drill--discipline. Keep the machinery well oiled, and your hand upon the crank, and all goes well."

"Until somebody knocks off your hand," said Abel.

"Yes, of course--of course; but that is the very point. The fight is never among the sheep, but only among the shepherds. Look at our splendid system, beginning with Tom, Jim, and Ned, and culminating in the President--the roots rather red and unsightly, but oh! such a pretty flower, all broadcloth, kid gloves, and affability--contemplate the superb machinery," continued the General, warming, "the primaries, the ward committees, the--in fact, all the rest of it--see how gloriously it works--the great result of the working of the whole is--"

"To establish justice, insure domestic tranquillity, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity," interrupted Abel, who had been scanning the Constitution, and who delivered the words with a rhetorical pomp of manner.

General Belch smiled approvingly.

"That's it--that's the very tone. You'll do. The great result is, who shall have his hand on the crank. And there are, therefore, always three parties in our beloved country."

Abel looked inquiringly.

"First, the _ins_, who are in two parties--the clique that have, and the clique that haven't. They fight like fury among themselves, but when they meet t'other great party they all fight together, because the hopes of the crank for each individual of each body lie in the party itself, and in their obedience to its discipline. These are two of the parties. Then there is the great party of the _outs_, who have a marvelous unanimity, and never break up into quarrelsome bodies until there is a fair chance of their ousting the _ins_. I say these things not because they are not pretty obvious, but because, as a man of fashion and society, you have probably not attended to such matters. It's dirty work for a gentleman.

But I suppose any of us would be willing to pick a gold eagle out of the mud, even if we did soil our fingers."

"Of course," replied Abel, in a tone that General Belch did not entirely comprehend--"of course no gentleman knows any thing of politics.

Gentlemen are the natural governors of a country; and where they are not erected into a hereditary governing class, self-respect forbids them to mix with inferior men--so they keep aloof from public affairs. Good Heavens! what gentleman would be guilty of being an alderman in this town! Why, as you know, my dear Belch, nothing but my reduced circumstances induces me to go to Congress. By-the-by--"

"Well, what is it?" asked the General.

"I'm dreadfully hard up," said Abel. "I have just the d----est luck you ever conceived, and I must raise some money."

The fat nose glistened again, while the General sat silently pondering.

"I can lend you a thousand," he said, at length.

"Thank you. It will oblige me very much."

"Upon conditions," added the General.

"Conditions?" asked Abel, surprised.

"I mean understandings," said the General.

"Oh! certainly," answered Abel.

"You pledge yourself to me and our friends that you will at the earliest moment move in the matter of the Grant; you engage to secure the votes somehow, relying upon the pecuniary aid of our friends who are interested; and you will repay me out of your first receipts. Ele will stand by you through thick and thin. We keep him there for that purpose."

"My dear Belch, I promise any thing you require. I only want the money."

"Give me your hand, Newt. From the bottom of my soul I do respect a man who has no scruples."

They shook hands heartily, and filling their glasses they drank "Success!" The General then wrote a check and a little series of instructions, which he gave to Abel, while Abel himself scribbled an I.O.U., which the General laid in his pocket-book.

"You'll have an eye on, Ele," said the General, as he buttoned his coat.

"Certainly--two if you want," answered Abel, lazily, repeating the joke.

"He's a good fellow, Ele is," said Belch; "but he's largely interested, and he'll probably try to chouse us out of something by affecting superior influence. You must patronize him to the other men. Keep him well under. I have a high respect for cellar stairs, but they mustn't try to lead up to the roof. Good-by. Hail Newt! Senator that shall be!"

laughed the General, as he shook hands and followed his fat nose out of the door.

Left to himself, Abel walked for some time up and down his room, with his hands buried in his pocket and a sneering smile upon his face. He suddenly drew one hand out, raised it, clenched it, and brought it down heavily in the air, as he muttered, contemptuously,

"What a stupid fool! I wonder if he never thinks, as he looks in the glass, that that fat nose of his is made to lead him by."

For the sagacious and fat-nosed General had omitted to look at the little paper Newt handed to him, thinking it would be hardly polite to do so under the circumstances. But if he had looked he would have seen that the exact sum they had spoken of had been forgotten, and a very inconsiderable amount was specified.

It had flashed across Abel's mind in a moment that if the General subsequently discovered it and were disposed to make trouble, the disclosure of the paper of instructions which he had written, and which Abel had in his possession, would ruin his hopes of political financiering. "And as for my election, why, I have my certificate in my pocket."

CHAPTER LXXIV.

MIDNIGHT.

Gradually the sneer faded from Abel's face, and he walked up and down the room, no longer carelessly, but fitfully; stopping sometimes--again starting more rapidly--then leaning against the mantle, on which the clock pointed to midnight--then throwing himself into a chair or upon a sofa; and so, rising again, walked on.

His head bent forward--his eyes grew rounder and harder, and seemed to be burnished with the black, bad light; his step imperceptibly grew stealthy--he looked about him carefully--he stood erect and breathless to listen--bit his nails, and walked on.

The clock upon the mantle pointed to half an hour after midnight. Abel Newt went into his chamber and put on his slippers. He lighted a candle, and looked carefully under the bed and in the closet. Then he drew the shades over the windows and went out into the other room, closing and locking the door behind him.

He glided noiselessly to the door that opened into the entry, and locked that softly and bolted it carefully. Then he turned the key so that the wards filled the keyhole, and taking out his handkerchief he hung it over the knob of the door, so that it fell across the keyhole, and no eye could by any chance have peered into the room.

He saw that the blinds of the windows were closed, the windows shut and locked, and the linen shades drawn over them. He also let fall the heavy damask curtains, so that the windows were obliterated from the room. He stood in the centre of the room and looked to every corner where, by any chance, a person might be concealed.

Then, moving upon tip-toe, he drew a key from his pocket and fitted it into the lid of a secretary. As he turned it in the lock the snap of the bolt made him start. He was haggard, even ghastly, as he stood, letting the lid back slowly, lest it should creak or jar. With another key he opened a little drawer, and involuntarily looking behind him as he did so, he took out a small piece of paper, which he concealed in his hand.

Seating himself at the secretary, he put the candle before him, and remained for a moment with his face slightly strained forward with a startling intentness of listening. There was no sound but the regular ticking of the clock upon the mantle. He had not observed it before, but now he could hear nothing else.

Tick, tick--tick, tick. It had a persistent, relentless, remorseless regularity. Tick, tick--tick, tick. Every moment it appeared to be louder and louder. His brow wrinkled and his head bent forward more deeply, while his eyes were set straight before him. Tick, tick--tick, tick. The solemn beat became human as he listened. He could not raise his head--he could not turn his eyes. He felt as if some awful shape stood over him with destroying eyes and inflexible tongue. But struggling, without moving, as a dreamer wrestles with the nightmare, he presently sprang bolt upright--his eyes wide and wild--the sweat oozing upon his ghastly forehead--his whole frame weak and quivering. With the same suddenness he turned defiantly, clenching his fists, in act to spring.

There was nothing there. He saw only the clock--the gilt pendulum regularly swinging--he heard only the regular tick, tick--tick, tick.

A sickly smile glimmered on his face as he stepped toward the mantle, still clutching the paper in his hand, but crouching as he came, and leering, as if to leap upon an enemy unawares. Suddenly he started as if struck--a stifled shriek of horror burst from his lips--he staggered back--his hand opened--the paper fell fluttering to the floor. Abel Newt had unexpectedly seen the reflection of his own face in the mirror that covered the chimney behind the clock.

He recovered himself, swore bitterly, and stooped to pick up the paper.