trength of these two blocks for shoring up the
hull, you must begin little by little, and keep on brightening up until
you have got the craft all right again. And when you have got her right
you must keep her right. I say, Tom!--it won't do. You must reef down,
or the devil'll seize the helm in one of these blows, and run you into a
port too warm for pea-jackets." For a moment, Spunyarn seems half
inclined to grasp Tom by his collarless coat and shake the hydrophobia,
as he calls it, out of him; then, as if incited by a second thought, he
draws from his shirt-bosom a large, wooden comb, and humming a tune
commences combing and fussing over Tom's hair, which stands erect over
his head like marlinspikes. At length he gets a craft-like set upon his
foretop, and turning his head first to the right, then to the left, as a
child does a doll, he views him with an air of exultation. "I tell you
what it is, Tom," he continues, relieving him of the old coat, "the
bright begins to come! There's three points of weather made already."

"God bless you, Spunyarn," replies Tom, evidently touched by the
frankness and generosity of the old sailor. Indeed there was something
so whole-hearted about old Spunyarn, that he was held in universal
esteem by every one in jail, with the single exception of Milman Mingle,
the vote-cribber.

"Just think of yourself, Tom--don't mind me," pursues the sailor as Tom
squeezes firmly his hand. "You've had a hard enough time of it--" Tom
interrupts by saying, as he lays his hands upon his sides, he is sore
from head to foot.

"Don't wonder," returns the sailor. "It's a great State, this South
Carolina. It seems swarming with poor and powerless folks. Everybody has
power to put everybody in jail, where the State gives a body two
dog's-hair and rope-yarn blankets to lay upon, and grants the sheriff,
Mr. Hardscrable, full license to starve us, and put the thirty cents a
day it provides for our living into his breeches pockets. Say what you
will about it, old fellow, it's a brief way of doing a little profit in
the business of starvation. I don't say this with any ill-will to the
State that regards its powerless and destitute with such criminal
contempt--I don't." And he brings water, gets Tom upon his feet, forces
him into a clean shirt, and regards him in the light of a child whose
reformation he is determined on perfecting. He sees that in the fallen
man which implies a hope of ultimate usefulness, notwit