Twelve year ago, come Michaelmas, he kept some on us from starving--may be worse.

We bean't going to turn rascals on's hands now.

Now I'll vote, sir,--and it won't be for Vermilye." A smothered murmur of applause greeted old Jacob, as he marched back down the aisle, where on the stone benches of the porch was seated a rural jury, who discussed not over-favourably the merits of Lord Luxmore's candidate.
"He owes a power o' money in Norton Bury--he do." "Why doesn't he show his face at the 'lection, like a decent gen'leman ?" "Fear'd o' bailiffs!" suggested the one constable, old and rheumatic, who guarded the peace of Kingswell.

"He's the biggest swindler in all England." "Curse him!" muttered an old woman.

"She was a bonny lass--my Sally! Curse him!" All this while, Lord Luxmore sat in lazy dignity in the communion-chair, apparently satisfied that as things always had been so they would continue to be; that despite the unheard-of absurdity of a contested election, his pocket-borough was quite secure.