What you-all might consider as the better element is painted up to beat Old Stewart who’s out sloshin’ about demandin’ re-election to Jeff City for a second term. The better element says Old Stewart drinks. An’ this accoosation is doubtless troo a whole lot, for I’m witness myse’f to the following colloquy which takes place between Old Stewart an’ a jack-laig doctor he crosses up with in St. Joe. Old Stewart’s jest come forth from the tavern, an’ bein’ on a joobilee the evenin’ before, is lookin’ an’ mighty likely feelin’ some seedy. “Doc,” says Old Stewart, openin’ his mouth as wide as a young raven, an’ then shettin’ it ag’in so’s to continyoo his remarks, “Doc, I wish you’d peer into this funnel of mine.” Then he opens his mouth ag’in in the same egree-gious way, while the scientist addressed scouts about tharin with his eyes, plenty owley. At last the Doc shows symptoms of bein’ ready to report. “Which I don’t note nothin’ onusual, Gov’nor, about that mouth,” says the Doc, “except it’s a heap voloominous.” “Don’t you discern no signs or signal smokes of any foreign bodies?” says Old Stewart, a bit pettish, same as if he can’t onderstand sech blindness. “None whatever!” observes the Doc. “It’s shore strange,” retorts Old Stewart, still in his complainin’ tones; “thar’s two hundred niggers, a brick house an’ a thousand acres of bottom land gone down that throat, an’ I sort o’ reckons some traces of ’em would show.” That’s the trouble with Old Stewart from the immacyoolate standpint of the better classes; they says he overdrinks. But while it’s convincin’ to sooperior folks an’ ones who’s goin’ to church an’ makin’ a speshulty of it, it don’t sep’rate Old Stewart from the warm affections of the rooder masses--the catfish an’ quinine aristocracy that dwells along the Missouri; they’re out for him to the last sport. “Suppose the old Gov’nor does drink,” says one, “what difference does that make? Now, if he’s goin’ to try sootes in co’t, or assoome the pressure as a preacher, thar’d be something in the bluff. But it don’t cut no figger whether a gov’nor is sober or no. All he has to do is pardon convicts an’ make notaries public, an’ no gent can absorb licker s’fficient to incapac’tate him for sech trivial dooties.” One of the argyments they uses ag’in Old Stewart is about a hawg-thief he pardons. Old Stewart is headin’ up for the state house one mornin’, when he caroms on a passel of felons in striped clothes who’s pesterin’ about the grounds, tittivatin’ up the scenery. Old Stewart pauses in front of one of ’em. “What be you-all in the pen’tentiary for?” says Old Stewart, an’ he’s profoundly solemn.