Cold meats, bread, cheese, and crackers, and a bountiful supply of bad whiskey, are spread over a table in the centre of the room; while the pale light of two small lamps, suspended from the ceiling, throws a curious shadow over the repulsive features of thirteen forlorn, ragged, and half-drunken men, sitting here and there round the room, on wooden benches. You see ignorance and cruelty written in their very countenances. For nearly three weeks they have not scented the air of heaven, but have been held here in a despicable bondage. Ragged and filthy, like Falstaff’s invincibles, they will be marched to the polls to-morrow, and cast their votes at the bid of the cribber. “A happy lot of fellows,” says Mr. Snivel, exultingly. “I have a passion for this sort of business-am general supervisor of all these cribs, you understand. We have several of them. Some of these ‘drifts’ we kidnap, and some come and be locked up of their own accord-merely for the feed and drink. We use them, and then snuff them out until we want them again.” Having turned from George, and complimented the vote-cribber for his skill, he bids him good-night. Together George and the politician wend their way to an obscure part of the city, and having passed up two flight of winding stairs, into a large, old-fashioned house on the Neck, are in a sort of barrack-room, fitted up with bunks and benches, and filled with a grotesque assembly, making night jubilant-eating, drinking, smoking, and singing. “A jolly set of fellows,” says Mr. Snivel, with an expression of satisfaction. “This is a decoy crib-the vagabonds all belong to the party of our opponents, but don’t know it. We work in this way: we catch them-they are mostly foreigners-lock them up, give them good food and drink, and make them-not the half can speak our language-believe we belong to the same party. They yield, as submissive as curs. To morrow, we-this is in confidence-drug them all, send them into a fast sleep, in which we keep them till the polls are closed, then, not wanting them longer, we kick them out for a set of drunkards. Dangerous sort of cribbing, this. I let you into the secret out of pure friendship.” Mr. Snivel pauses. George has at heart something of deeper interest to him than votes and vote-cribbers. But why, he says to himself, does Mr. Snivel evince this anxiety to befriend me? This question is answered by Mr. Snivel inviting him to take a look into the Keno den. CHAPTER XXXI. THE KENO DEN, AND WHAT MAY BE SEEN IN IT. The clock has just struck twelve. Mr. Snivel and George, passing from the scenes of our last chapter, enter a Keno den,