Day had scarcely dawned when Puffer was called up
into the chamber of the little tailor. As he entered, in
quick answer to the summons, dreading some fatal crisis
in his disease, Martha was at the bed-side dwelling upon
the countenance of Fob with a fixed earnestness, watching
every look and turn, and ministering to his wish before
it was uttered; and Puffer, who knew that Fob had had
the whole house, in every one of its chambers, for a
nurse, and yet none so gentle as this one, wondered
whence she came, and turned toward the little tailor with
a question in his look. Fob, busy with other thoughts,

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held spread out before him as wide as his thin, feeble
arms would allow, the old parchment, on which his eyes,—
wide apart, too,—were steadfastly fastened. He greeted
Puffer, as he drew nearer to his couch, and requested
him, with a knowing smile, to stand off.

“You shan't come so near!” said Fob, still with a
grave smile, “I can't allow it. There—stand where you
are—now look and tell me what you see?”

Puffer, who had been driven back by Fob's urgency, to
almost the other wall of the chamber, confessed, that,
with the doubtful light, he could see nothing worth mentioning.

“Well, well,” pursued Fob, rising upon his elbows in
his bed, and shifting the position of the parchment so
that it fronted the window, “I must allow you a sunbeam
or two: what do you see now?”

Still, Puffer averred, nothing. Then Fob permitted
him to come a foot or two nearer, still without effect: and
at last, in a sort of pleased impatience, he threw the
Deed towards him and told him to read for himself.

“He wants to show off his scholarship, Martha, that's
all,” said Fob, who stretched his neck forward and
watched the countenance of Puffer. A glance had sufficed
to show him all. There it was, written in a good
bold hand, Hobbleshank; and there was the clause,
word for word, as Fob had recited it, touching his child,
and showing, clearly enough, the tenure by which he
held his right. And now something of the old man's
hopes began to break upon him; as his mind ran back,
with inconceivable swiftness, he found he held the key
by which to interpret his sad snatches of talk; his wild,
melancholy cry that all was lost; and then returned upon
him too the pledge he had proffered to his aged friends.
He clasped the little tailor in an earnest grasp; thanked
him that he had borne in mind his poor wish that he
might do a service to the kind old man; and, returning
the Deed again to Fob, for present custody, he set forth
in a renewed search after Hobbleshank. There was not a
spot nor place where he had but heard the name of Hobbleleshank
mentioned that he did not visit. Till noon-day
he was busy going about from one place to another,
following out an imperfect clue—when, having learned
that the old man had been a constant lounger upon the

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wharves, spending whole days in looking up and down
the river, (with what purpose nobody could ever guess,)
Puffer spent several hours more, in going from pier to
pier, watching the sloops and other river craft as they arrived,
with the hope that he might have wandered away
into the country and would choose this path back. Then
he crossed the city to the piehouse where they had passed
their first night together: being told that he never came
there till towards dusk, he waited about, questioning every
one that entered; but dusk and broad night, even, failed
to bring the one he sought. He then aimed for Barrell's
oyster-house—he had reserved this, with a strong hope,
for the last. When he had reached the oyster-house his
heart smote him—the cellar-doors were closed and a
faint light streamed upon the walk and up into the faces
of passers-by from the glass bull's-eye in the door. It
might be shut for the night. He knocked; no answer
was returned: knocked again, and the glass-eye grew
dull; he bent down and whispered his name; the eye
brightened at once, and he was admitted. Politician as
he was, he was compelled to stop and stand stone-still
on the steps, in wonder and amazement at what he saw.

The little stalls about the place, used to hold one
customer with difficulty—and not that, if he grew too
fast and stout upon the choice shell-fish of Mr. Jarve Barrel—
now swarmed with damp, dripping faces, as thickly
set as dewy cauliflowers on a wall; the fire was out; and
the rear of the cellar, shorn of its benches and small
square tables, had passed through a remarkable transformation;
the chief circumstance of which was that Mr.
Nicholas Finch, the indefatigable agent, was seated on a
stool, his legs spread apart, and between his legs so
spread apart, the head of a kneeling gentleman, of scant
apparel, bent down. Upon the head Mr. Finch was most
industriously employed, in spite of the remonstrances,
entreaties, and contortions of the catechumen. Lounging
against the end of the oyster-stand, picking off oysters
from a plate with a delicate touch and surveying this proceeding
from time to time as his leisure permitted, stood
a young gentleman, chastely apparelled in white-jean
pants of a fashionable cut, an elegant blue coat and bushy
whiskers.

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“Hallo!” cried the oyster-eater, at an unusual spasm
on the part of Mr. Finch's gentleman, “you'r a purty
feller, ar'nt you, for a feller citizin—when you know
towels and soap is the price of freedom—blow me tight if
it ai'nt, Nick.” The oyster-eater had small eyes and
stout chaps, and he smiled, with an oyster on his fork, as
he uttered these words. Mr. Finch was silent, but plied
his arms with wonderful diligence.

“I'll take another, Mr. Codwise,” said Mr. Finch,
looking up. The kneeling gentleman jumped to his feet,
rubbed his eyes, and walking off to a corner of the cellar,
took his seat on a bench the second in a row. The oyster-eater
laid down his fork, pickd his way nicely to one
of the stalls, and taking one of the ragged tenants daintily
by the collar, led him out upon the floor, and giving him
an energetic impulse with his foot, directed him to Mr.
Finch. Upon this gentleman Mr. Finch fell to work in
like manner; and the owner of the blue coat and bushy
whiskers resumed his oysters. This was certainly a
lively subject; his outcries were much louder and his
writhings more frequent, and the raptures of Mr. Codwise
proportionably heightened: so much so, that he
at last left off his oysters entirely, to watch the spectacle,
and smiled so earnestly, that the tears came into
his eyes.

“Bear your sufferin's like a man and a gentleman,” said
Mr. Codwise, whose delivery was somewhat imperfect,
but in a tone of patronizing encouragement. “Split my
vest, but do'nt be cast down, because the fibre's coarse.
Oh! it's a glorious privilege, ai'nt it, Mr. Finch, to enjoy
the right of votin' an independent ticket.” The consolation
administered by Mr. Codwise was not quite satisfactory,
for Mr. Finch's patient writhed again at a fresh application,
down to his very extremities. At this moment
a plunge was heard beyond, from behind a faded curtain,
stretched across the rear of the apartment, and through
which a dull light glimmered and painted upon it shadowy
figures moving within. A voice remonstrated—a
voice, Mr. Jarve Barrell's, by the accent, responded, and
a second plunge. What could this mean? Could it be that
Puffer Hopkins had got into a branch penitentiary, established
under ground, where new tortures and fresh-devised
penalties were inflicted on the criminal?

[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]

When he looked at the men about him, there was certainly
something in their gait to warrant the belief; and
when he saw the secrecy with which the rites of the place
were performed, he might have been easily assured that
these men had been guilty of offences against God and
man, that drew upon them the dungeon and the rack,
which Mr. Finch and Mr. Barrell seemed to be administering.
There was the smell of the prison in their garments
and something of the dull fixedness of prison
walls in their look.

There seemed at this juncture, to be a struggle
behind the red curtain. “Don't drown me, for Heaven's
sake, don't drown me!” cried the first voice again, in a
tone of earnest entreaty.

“Dip your head under, you rascal!” cried the voice of
Mr. Jarve Barrell. “Dip your head under, you burglary
knave!”

“Petty larceny, sir,” whined the other voice, which
savoured strongly of thin soup and damp lodgings.

“Don't spare the villain!” shouted Mr. Codwise, who
had mounted a stool, and with a light in his right hand
held high above his head, was peering over the curtain,
“Its burglary; I saw it on the keeper's books; its so on
my list. Don't spare him—its good for his system—ain't
it Mr. Barrell? He broke into a respectable house in
Fourteenth street, and stole a bottle of Muscat wine and
a plate of anchovies. “I'll make a patriot of you, you
villain—Don't you want to serve your country—Eh! tell
us that, will you?”

And so it was kept up: Mr. Finch dumb and devoted
heart and soul to the performance of his share of the
service; Mr. Barrell, coaxing and clamoring from behind
the curtain, with the resisters of his authority; and Mr.
Codwise dividing his time in equal proportions between
the oysters, the leading out of the men from the stalls,
baiting Mr. Finch's patients from where he stood, and
bantering Mr. Barrell's from over the top of the curtain.
At length the noise ceased from behind the curtain and
Mr. Barrell came stumping forth; Mr. Finch dismissed
his last patient from under his hand; Mr. Codwise's last
oyster had disappeared. The benches were full; and

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there they sate, all in a row, in their sleeves, their faces
of a bright red—brought on by the spirited exertions of
Mr. Finch, and their hair flying all abroad.

Puffer inquired what all this meant. What did it mean?
He did n't want respectable voters—freemen, freshly delivered
from bondage, voting an independent, patriotic
ticket—coming up to the polls in dirty faces—did he?
He'd like to have 'em show a clean countenance among
their fellow citizens—would n't he! What was better for
'em then than baths and towels? This was Mr. Barrell's
explanation, and it agreed well enough with a rumour which
had prevailed that prisoners were to be brought down
from the Island to vote at the coming election.

At the head of the row, there was an old window, which
being greatly battered and damaged by age, admitted such
currents of air as might be prowling about. The
gentlemen in the sleeves murmured at this, and ventured
to hint that the cold was coming it rather sharp
and strong.

“Be silent, ye scum of the earth,” cried Mr. Codwise,
the moment he detected a glimpse of insubordination—
coming forward, and planting himself directly in their
front, at the same time gently hoisting his shirt collar. “Ar'nt
we making men of you? How do ye expect to be worthy of
freedom if you don't fit yourself for it by a course of trials
and tribulations? Look at me! Did'nt I risk my neck in
getting you off the Island—whose your deliverer but me, you
bottle-flies? There's few rich men's sons would ha' done as
much—is there Mr. Finch—is there Barrel? True, I might
ha' been sittin' by my father's parlour fire, eatin' sandwiches
and drinkin' claret—and what do I do? Why, I
hire an omnibus at an expense of three dollars an hour,
didn't I, Mr. Finch? and blow me tight if I didn't wait
upon you—you miserable wretches off the Island, as though
you had been so many Broadway promenaders of the
sex—help you into your carriage, and bring you to a friend's
house for lodgings—didn't I, Mr. Barrell? and now you
grumble about that winder, do you? May my buttons
drop off, and my boots run down at the heel, if I don't
give up politics and go into the shades of private life, if
I see any more sich ingratitude and beastliness!”

Puffer looked at the speaker; saw how poor and

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frivolous he was, in spite of his trinkets and fair apparel, but
when he spoke, in boast, of the home where he might be
sheltered, a feeling wakened in Puffer's heart which he
could not subdue. He thought of himself and the other
together, side by side, and asked himself, almost repiningly,
why the vague hope that he might be one day restored
to a home he had not known for years, should not be
fulfilled? Why, as in the other case, the trinkets he wore
upon his person were pledges of parental attachment—
why the little trinket—the little broken jewel he had
treasured so long, as the sole relic of any parent's love
towards him, should not guide him by some kindly providence
back to the happiness he should have known? He
wakened from this reverie, and turning quickly upon Mr.
Jarve Barrell, who stood by his side, he asked after
Hobbleshank. Mr. Jarve Barrell's information was strictly
professional. All he knew or could tell in the premises
was, that the old man, in company with a stranger, had
stopped a long while ago and ordered a large supply of
oysters to be ready on their return, with sufficient beer to
answer. They had never come back, and the oysters
were kept till midnight, when a party of sailors luckily
coming in swept them up. That was all. Puffer
asked no further questions, but climbing the steps, thoughtfully,
without salutation or farewell of any kind either
to the agent or Mr. Barrell, was in the open air. There
he wandered up and down two or three by-streets lost in
thought.

At last it occurred to him that he would repair to
the old man's lodgings, and seek information of his two
old friends;—this might only give pain—and to what
purpose? Just then a drum sounded about the corner,—
the current of his thoughts was changed, and he turned into
the next street. A boy, in a cocked paper-hat, (a brigadier's
hat at least), beating a drum with great energy, marched at
the head of a company of youth, who, fitted out in belts
and sticks, and bearing crickets and hurdygurdys in their
hands, tramped along, assuming the port of martialists and
sticking close to the heels of their leader. Puffer, with
others, fell in at their wake and followed them down the
city to the front of a public hall, embellished with the full-length
of a tall military gentleman in a blue coat and

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yellow breeches, where, forming a line, they plied their instruments
for a quarter of an hour—and then marched
off. Puffer Hopkins entered the Hall; the great room
up stairs was packed close with citizens, listening
to an excited individual, who walked up and down
the platform, swaying his arms and foaming at the
mouth, as though he were in a cage, roaring to be let out.
This seemed to be to the crowd an entertainment of the
first description; but Puffer, paying little heed to the orator,
who he knew was going furious according to an understanding
with the committee that arranged the meeting,
glided about the room, singling out a man here,—a man
there—and whispering a word in his ear. In a few minutes,
keeping clear of the platform and coasting along the
wall out of view of the light, he got forth into the street
again.

Wherever he moved indications of the contest of tomorrow
were rife. The oyster-houses and tap-rooms,
everywhere, were full; the citizens throwing themselves
upon oysters and punches, with infinite spirit all through
the night, and pausing only every now and then to form into a
group, and enter upon a discussion of the prospects and
chances of the day. Sometimes a grim boy staggered
by under a fardel of ballots from the printers; sometimes
a bill-sticker paused, and clattering his paste-pot on the
pavement, proceeded to embellish the wall with a pictorial
and ornamental broad-sheet. Every street had its
public meeting in the upper chamber of a tavern, whose
windows glared with light. It was noticeable that in the
neighborhoods of the Gallipot meetings—the friends of
Gallipot being in possession of the city—the public lamps
were well lighted and burned away in the most brilliant
and cheerful humour imaginable; whereas, in all the
streets lying about a meeting of the opposition, for a furlong
or better, they utterly refused to afford a single ray
to any that might be in search of such meeting or place of
resort. Not only this, but it would not infrequently happen
that a public well would be found to be sunk or undergoing
repair, at the very mouth of the opposition halls,
affording a capital opportunity for curious geological investigation
to such gentlemen of the opposition as might
be inclined to step in. Even as it was—as if to supply

p264-191 [figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]

any deficiency of the corporate light—new lights sprung
up on every hand as the night deepened. In committee-rooms
and other resorts all over town, men were gathered
about their tables, mapping out the work of to-morrow,
brooding stealthily over circumventions and manœuvres
and strokes of craft; in others, cutting tickets and folding
them; in others, nursing the patriotic furor in innumerable
punches, cock-tails and cobblers. And so from every
quarter their dusky lights streamed upon the street—making
the air close and sultry—and portending surely
enough the storm that was to break by morning. Puffer
as he hurried about, dipping in for a minute at a caucus,
for another minute at a tap-room, and again at a public
meeting, where they seemed bent on keeping huddled together
all night long, seething and reeking and growing
more confused and more determined, the longer they tarried—
Puffer waxed warm, too, and retired to the Fork,
with a head full of schemes and a heart all on fire with
the sure hope of a triumph.