ld watch over him, and nurse him into sobriety,
with the care and tenderness of a brother. "Tom was good to me, when he
had it;" he says, with an air of sympathy. "And here goes for lendin' a
hand to a shipmate in distress." He takes one arm and the jailer the
other, and together they support the inebriate to his cell. "Set me down
for a steady boarder, and have done with it," the forlorn man mutters,
as they lay him gently upon the hard cot. "Down for steady board,
jailer--that's it."

"Steady, steady now," rejoins the old sailor, as the inebriate tosses
his arms over his head. "You see, there's a heavy ground swell on just
now, and a chap what don't mind his helm is sure to get his spars
shivered." He addresses the the jailer, who stands looking with an air
of commiseration on the prostrate man. "Take in head-sail--furl
top-gallant-sails--reef topsails--haul aft main-sheet--put her helm
hard down--bring her to the wind, and there let her lay until it comes
clear weather." The man writhes and turns his body uneasily. "There,
there," continues the old sailor, soothingly; "steady, steady,--keep her
away a little, then let her luff into a sound sleep. Old Spunyarn's the
boy what'll stand watch." A few minutes more and the man is in a deep,
sound sleep, the old sailor keeping watch over him so kindly, so like a
true friend.

CHAPTER II.

THE HOUSE OF A VERY DISTINGUISHED LADY.

The mansion of Madame Flamingo stands stately in Berresford street. An
air of mystery hangs over it by day, and it is there young Charleston
holds high carnival at night. It is a very distinguished house, and
Madame Flamingo assures us she is a very distinguished lady, who means
to make her peace with heaven before she dies, and bestow largely on the
priests, who have promised to make her comfortable while on the road
through purgatory. The house is in high favor with young Charleston, and
old Charleston looks in now and then. Our city fathers have great
sympathy for it, and protect it with their presence. Verily it is a
great gate on the road to ruin, and thousands pass heedlessly through
its decorated walks, quickly reaching the dark end.

It is evening, and thin fleecy clouds flit along the heavens. The gas
sheds a pale light over the streets, and shadowy figures pass and repass
us as we turn into the narrow street leading to the house of the old
hostess. We have reached the great arched door, and stand in the shadow
of a gas-light,