have not much love of prisons. But
unless we do now and then enter them, our conceptions of how much misery
man can inflict upon man will be small indeed.

The man of sailor-like deportment, and whom the prisoners salute with
the sobriquet of "Old Spunyarn," entered, you will please remember, the
cell, as the young theologian left in search of Mrs. Swiggs, "I thought
I'd just haul my tacks aboard, run up a bit, and see what sort of
weather you were making, Tom," says he, touching clumsily his
small-brimmed, plait hat, as he recognizes the young man, whom he
salutes in that style so frank and characteristic of the craft. "He's a
bit better, sir--isn't he?" inquires Spunyarn, his broad, honest face,
well browned and whiskered, warming with a glow of satisfaction.

Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he replies he is right glad of
it, not liking to see a shipmate in a drift. And he gives his quid a
lurch aside, throws his hat carelessly upon the floor, shrugs his
shoulders, and as he styles it, nimbly brings himself to a mooring, at
Tom's side. "It's a hard comforter, this state. I don't begrudge your
mother the satisfaction she gets of sending you here. In her eyes, ye
see, yeer fit only to make fees out on, for them ar lawyer chaps. They'd
keep puttin' a body in an' out here during his natural life, just for
the sake of gettin', the fees. They don't care for such things as you
and I. We hain't no rights; and if we had, why we hain't no power. This
carry in' too much head sail, Tom, won't do--'twon't!" Spunyarn shakes
his head reprovingly, fusses over Tom, turns him over on his wales, as
he has it, and finally gets him on his beam's ends, a besotted wreck
unable to carry his canvas. "Lost yeer reckoning eh, Tom?" he continues
as that bewildered individual stares vacantly at him. The inebriate
contorts painfully his face, presses and presses his hands to his
burning forehead, and says they are firing a salute in his head, using
his brains for ammunition.

"Well, now Tom, seein' as how I'm a friend of yourn--"

"Friend of mine?" interrupts Tom, shaking his head, and peering through
his fingers mistrustfully.

"And this is a hard lee shore you've beached upon; I'll lend ye a hand
to get in the head sail, and get the craft trimmed up a little. A dash
of the same brine will help keep the ballast right, then a skysail-yard
breakfast must be carefully stowed away, in order to give a firmness to
the timbers, and on the s