"I--I--beg your pardon, sir, but I'll give up my seat. I'm most uncommon sorry that ever--curse me if I care about being a mem"---- "Oh! and is _that_ the way you spake of being a mimber o' Parlimint? For shame, for shame, not to feel the glory of your position, sir! There's _millions_ o' gintlemen envying you, just now!--Sir, I see that you're likely to cut a figure in the House." "But, begging your pardon, sir, if it _costs_ such a precious long figure--why, I've come down some four or five thousand pounds already," quoth Titmouse, twisting his hand into his hair. "An' what if ye have? What's that to a gintleman o' your consequence in the country? It's, moreover, only once and for all; only stick in _now_--and you stay in for seven years, and come in for nothing next general election; and now--d'ye hear me, sir? for time presses--retire, and give the seat to a Tory if you will--(what's the name o' the blackguard? Oh, it's young Delamere)--and have your own borough stink under your nose all your days! But can you keep a secret like a gintleman? Judging from your appearance, I should say yes--sir--is it so?" Titmouse placed his hand over his beating heart, and with a great oath solemnly declared that he would be "mum as death;" on which Mr. O'Gibbet lowered his tone to a faint whisper--"You'll distinctly understand I've nothing to do with it personally, but it's impossible, sir--d'ye hear?--to fight the divil except with his own weapons--and there are too many o' the enemies o' the people in the House--a little _money_, sir--eh? Aisy, aisy--softly say I! Isn't that the way to get along?" added Mr. O'Gibbet, with a rich leer, and poking Titmouse in the ribs. "'Pon my life that'll do--and--and--what's the figure, sir?" "Sir, as you're a young mimber, and of Liberal principles," continued Mr. O'Gibbet, dropping his tone still lower, "_three_ thousand pounds"----Titmouse started as if he had been shot. "Mind, that _clears_ you, sir, d'ye understand? Everything! Out and out, no reservation at all at all--divil a bit!" "'Pon my precious soul, I shall be ruined between you all!" gasped Titmouse, faintly. "Sir, you're not the man I took you for," replied Mr. O'Gibbet, impatiently and contemptuously. "Don't you see a barleycorn before your nose? You'll be _beat_ after spending three times the money I name, and be liable to ten thousand pounds' penalties besides for bribery"---- "Oh, 'pon my life, sir, as for _that_," said Titmouse, briskly, but feeling sick at heart, "I've no more to do with it than--my tiger"---- "Bah! you're a babby, I see!" quoth O'Gibbet, testily. "What's the name o' your man o' business?--there's not a minute to lose--it's your greatest friend I mane to be, I assure ye--tut, what's his name?" "Mr. Gammon," replied Titmouse, anxiously.