flat nose,
massive lips, and sharp grey eyes, his crispy red hair, bristling over a
low narrow forehead, and two deep scars on the left side of his face,
present a picture of repulsiveness not easily described. Silently and
sullenly he contemplates the object before him for several minutes, then
says:

"Dogs take me, Mister Jailer! but he's what I calls run to the dogs.
That's what whisky's did for him."

"And what it will do for you one of these days," interrupts the jailer,
admonishingly. "Up for disturbing the peace at Madame Flamingo's.
Committed by Justice Snivel."

"Throwing stones by way of repentance, eh? Tom was, at one time, as good
a customer as that house had. A man's welcome at that house when he's up
in the world. He's sure a gittin' kicked out when he is down."

"He's here, and we must get him to a cell," says the jailer, setting his
key down and preparing to lift the man on his feet.

"Look a here, Tom Swiggs,--in here again, eh?" resumes the man in the
red shirt. "Looks as if you liked the institution. Nice son of a
respectable mother, you is!" He stoops down and shakes the prostrate man
violently.

The man opens his eyes, and casts a wild glance on the group of wan
faces peering eagerly at him. "I am bad enough. You are no better than
me," he whispers. "You are always here."

"Not always. I am a nine months' guest. In for cribbing voters. Let out
when election day comes round, and paid well for my services. Sent up
when election is over, and friends get few. No moral harm in cribbing
voters. You wouldn't be worth cribbing, eh, Tom? There ain't no
politician what do'nt take off his hat, and say--'Glad to see you,
Mister Mingle,' just afore election." The man folds his arms and walks
sullenly down the corridor, leaving the newcomer to his own reflections.
There is a movement among the group looking on; and a man in the garb of
a sailor advances, presses his way through, and seizing the prostrate by
the hand, shakes it warmly and kindly. "Sorry to see you in here agin,
Tom," he says, his bronzed face lighting up with the fires of a generous
heart. "There's no man in this jail shall say a word agin Tom Swiggs. We
have sailed shipmates in this old craft afore."

The man was a sailor, and the prisoner's called him Spunyarn, by way of
shortness. Indeed, he had became so familiarized to the name, that he
would answer to none other. His friendship for the inebriate was of the
most sincere kind. He wou