"If, as I suspect, there's somethin' wrong
somewhere," the clerk went on to say, "I don't
want to be mixed up in it, when the day of
reck'nin' comes round."

"Of course not."

"And there's my motive."

"Have you always been on good terms, Mr.
Keckwitch, with the party in question?"

This was said very sharply and suddenly, but
the clerk's face remained stolid and inexpressive
as ever.

"Well, Mr. Kidd," said he, "I can't say
there's ever been much love lost between us.
I've done my duty, and I don't deny that he's
done his; but we've been neither friends nor
enemies."

Mr. Kidd stared hard at Mr. Keckwitch,
and Mr. Keckwitch stared at the fire; the one
all scrutiny, the other all unconsciousness.
For some minutes both were silent, and the
loud mirth at the bar became more distinctly
audible. Then Mr. Kidd drew a deep breath,
pushed his chair back with the air of one who
arrives at a sudden resolution, drew a slip of
paper from his waistcoat-pocket, and said:

"Well, sir, if the address is all you require—
here it is."

The steely light so rarely seen there flashed
into Abel Keckwitch's eyes, and his hand
closed on the paper as if it had been a living
thing, trying to fly away. He did not even look
at it, but imprisoned it at once in a plethoric
pocket-book with a massive metal clasp that
snapped like a handcuff.

"What's the fee?" said he, eagerly. " What's
the fee for this little service, Mr. Kidd?"

"That's a question you must ask at
headquarters, sir," replied Mr. Kidd, eyeing the clerk
somewhat curiously, and already moving towards
the door.

"But you'll take another glass of sherry
before you go?"

"Not a drop, sir, thank you—not a drop.
Wish you good evening, sir."

And in another moment, Mr. Kidd, with the
white hat a trifle on one side, and the jovial
smile seeming to irradiate his whole person, had
presented himself at the bar, and was saying
agreeable things to the young lady with the
ringlets.

"Ah, sir," observed she, playfully, "I don't
care for compliments."

"Then, my dear, a man must be dumb to
please you; for if he has eyes and a tongue,
what can he do but tell you you're an angel?"

The barmaid giggled, and bade the gallant
stranger " get along!"

"It's a remarkable fact," said Mr. Kidd,
"that the prettiest women are always the most
hard-hearted. And it's an equally remarkable
fact, that the sight of beauty always makes me
thirsty. I'll trouble you, Mary, my love, for a
bottle of Schweppe."

"That's a good sort of fellow, I'll be bound!"
ejaculated a stout woman, looking admiringly
after Mr. Kidd as he presently went out with
an irresistible air of gentlemanly swagger.

"You think so, do you, ma'am?" said a seedy
bystander. "Humph! That's Kidd, the
detective."

ELECTION TIME.

ELECTION time is a bad time; a lying time, a
corrupting time, a drunken time; a dirty, beer-
sloppy, pipe-smoking, cab-driving, bill-posting,
tipping, winking, nudging, duffing, dodging,
shuffling, guzzling period of disgrace and
demoralisation. In a general election time, all
England is a riotous taproom, splashed with beer,
reeking with tobacco-smoke, and littered with
written lies and false promises.

I am not a party man. If the phrase were
not so hackneyed and so abused by being so
constantly used as a mere bit of clap-trap, I should
say that my motto was " Measures, not Men."
What, to me, is the difference between Coodle
and Doodle? I have not the honour (and I
don't want it) to be personally acquainted with
either of those resplendent peers. What I know
of them, as public men, is, that they are both very
good fellows, not in the least desirous to abuse
their power or position, and in other respects
pretty much like other men. What can it
signify to me or to you, or to anybody, which of
those honourable and patriotic creatures is at the
head of the government, so that he manages our
public affairs well? I am, at the present time,
so indifferent to the claims of party and
individuals, that if a Tory of mark and talent were to
put up for the borough for which I have two
votes, I would—though strongly inclining to
the policy of the so-called liberals—give him a
plumper; being convinced that the two liberal
members who happen to represent us, are muffs,
and, on their own merits, utterly unworthy of
our suffrages.

I mention this, to show that I have no
personal or party sympathy with either side—
except on certain special grounds, which I
will state presently. No; as regards election
tactics they are both tarred with the same
brush. Experientia docet. How my views have
changed on this subject! When I was a boy at
school, far away among the mountains of
Scotland, I thought a general election the most
delightful thing in the world. The earl's son,
who always stood for the county, and always
got in—for the very good reason that his father
was the landlord of more than three-fourths of the
electors—came to our school in his carriage,
addressed some of the electors there, and procured
for us, the boys, a half holiday. His colours
were blue and yellow, and I remember going
home and hunting over my mother's drawers
for some scraps of ribbon to make me a favour
of. What an excitement there was when the
earl's son drove up the country road in an
open carriage with four grey horses, and his
postilions in flaming red jackets. I shall
never forget those postilions. I had never
seen postilions before, and they impressed me
strangely. I can see them now joggling in