It pays fifteen cents a day for getting them
all well starved; and there its humanity ends, as all state humanity
should end.

The inner iron gate has just closed, and two sturdy constables have
dragged into the corridor a man, or what liquor has left of a man, and
left him prostrate and apparently insensible on the floor. "Seventh time
we've bring'd him 'ere a thin two months. Had to get a cart, or Phin and
me never'd a got him 'ere," says one of the men, drawing a long breath,
and dusting the sleeves of his coat with his hands.

"An officer earns what money he gits a commitin' such a cove," says the
other, shaking his head, and looking down resentfully at the man on the
floor. "Life'll go out on him like a kan'l one of these days." Officer
continues moralizing on the bad results of liquor, and deliberately
draws a commitment from his breast pocket. "Committed by Justice
Snivel--breaking the peace at the house of Madame----" He cannot make
out the name.

First officer interposes learnedly--"Madame Flamingo." "Sure enuf, he's
been playin' his shines at the old woman's house again. Why, Master
Jailer, Justice Snivel must a made fees enuf a this 'ere cove to make a
man rich enough," continues Mr. Constable Phin.

"As unwelcome a guest as comes to this establishment," rejoins the
corpulent old jailer, adjusting his spectacles, and reading the
commitment, a big key hanging from the middle finger of his left hand.
"Used to be sent up here by his mother, to be starved into reform. He is
past reform. The poor-house is the place to send him to, 'tis."

"Well, take good care on him, Master Jailer, now you've got him. He
comes of a good enough family," says the first officer.

"He's bin in this condition more nor a week--layin' down yonder, in Snug
Harbor. Liquor's drived all the sense out on him," rejoins the
second--and bidding the jailer good-morning, they retire.

The forlorn man still lies prostrate on the floor, his tattered garments
and besotted face presenting a picture of the most abject wretchedness.
The old jailer looks down upon him with an air of sympathy, and shakes
his head.

"The doctor that can cure you doesn't live in this establishment," he
says. The sound of a voice singing a song is heard, and the figure of a
powerfully framed man, dressed in a red shirt and grey homespun
trousers, advances, folds his arms deliberately, and contemplates with
an air of contempt the prostrate man. His broad red face,