It is enough to say that, after a
long, bitter, and tedious struggle, the last day of it arrived. Bryan
M'Mahon, having fully satisfied himself that his landlord had not taken
a single step to promote his interests in the matter of the memorial,
resolved from the beginning not to vote in his favor, and, of course,
not to vote at all.
On the morning of the last day, with the exception of himself alone,
a single voter had not been left unpolled; and the position of the two
candidates was very peculiar, both having polled exactly the same number
of votes, and both being consequently equal.
Bryan, having left home early, was at breakfast about eleven o'clock, in
a little recess off the bar of the head-inn, which was divided from
one end of the coffee-room by a thin partition of boards, through which
anything spoken in an ordinary tone of voice in that portion of the
room could be distinctly heard. Our readers may judge of his surprise
on hearing the following short but pithy dialogue of which he himself
formed the subject matter. The speakers, with whom were assembled
several of his landlord's committee, being no other than that worthy
gentleman and his agent.
"What's to be done?" asked Chevydale; "here is what we call a dead heat.
Can no one prevail on that obstinate scoundrel, the Ahadarra man--what
do ye call, him? M'Master--M'Manus---M'--eh?"
"M'Mahon," replied Fethertonge, "I fear not; but, at all events, we
must try him again.
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