had the chief share in
the Sproxton mines. But the side lanes and entries out of King Street were
numerous enough to relieve any pressure if there was need to make way. The lanes
had a distinguished reputation. Two of them had odours of brewing; one had a
side entrance to Mr Tiliot's wine and spirit vaults; up another Mr Muscat's
cheeses were frequently being unloaded; and even some of the entries had those
cheerful suggestions of plentiful provision which were among the characteristics
of Treby.
    Between ten and eleven the voters came in more rapid succession, and the
whole scene became spirited. Cheers, sarcasms, and oaths, which seemed to have a
flavour of wit for many hearers, were beginning to be reinforced by more
practical demonstrations, dubiously jocose. There was a disposition in the crowd
to close and hem in the way for voters, either going or coming, until they had
paid some kind of toll. It was difficult to see who set the example in the
transition from words to deeds. Some thought it was due to Jacob Cuff, a Tory
charity-man, who was a well-known ornament of the pothouse, and gave his mind
much leisure for amusing devices; but questions of origination in stirring
periods are notoriously hard to settle. It is by no means necessary in human
things that there should be only one beginner. This, however, is certain - that
Mr Chubb, who wished it to be noticed that he voted for Garstin solely, was one
of the first to get rather more notice than he wished, and that he had his hat
knocked off and crushed in the interest of Debarry by Tories opposed to
coalition. On the other hand, some said it was at the same time that Mr Pink,
the saddler, being stopped on his way and made to declare that he was going to
vote for Debarry, got himself well chalked as to his coat, and pushed up an
entry, where he remained the prisoner of terror combined with the want of any
back outlet, and never gave his vote that day.
    The second Tory joke was performed with much gusto. The majority of the
Transome tenants came in a body from the Ram Inn, with Mr Banks the bailiff
leading them. Poor Goffe was the last of them, and his worn melancholy look and
forward-leaning gait gave the jocose Cuff the notion that the farmer was not
what he called compus. Mr Goffe was cut off from his companions and hemmed in;
asked, by voices with hot breath close to his ear, how many horses he had, how
many cows, how