't protect me.
When I go among Patagonians, I know what they do; but when I sail
to United States or be cast away on them, I don't know what they do,
because I expect good people." * * *

"Never mind, my good fellow," said Redman; "cheer up, take it as a good
sailor would a storm, and in the morning you'll get a small loaf of sour
bread and a bucket of water for breakfast, if you go to the pump for it.
Be careful to moderate your appetite when you breakfast according to the
State's rules; for you must save enough to last you during the day, and
if you can keep "banyan day," as the Bluenose calls it, you're just the
man for this institution, and no mistake. Come, I see you're hungry;
drink another bowl of coffee, and eat plenty of bread; then you'll be
all right for another good sleep."

"Yes, but I don't expect to be in here long. But tell me, do we get
nothing more than a loaf? didn't the jail give us this supper?" he
inquired with surprise.

"Supper, indeed!--it's against the rules for prisoners to have coffee;
that's our private fixings; but you'll get a pound of bloody neck-bone,
they call beef, in the morning. I have twice thrown mine to the dog,
but he doesn't seem to thank me for it; so I told the cook he needn't
trouble his steelyards for me again."

Redman's conversation was interrupted by a noise that seemed to be a
ring of the prison bell, and an anxious expression which Manuel gave
utterance to, indicated that he expected somebody would come to see him.
He was not disappointed, for a few minutes after, the bolts were heard
to withdraw and the heavy door swung back. There, true to his charge,
was little Tommy, in his nicest blue rig, tipped off a la man-o'-war
touch, with his palmetto-braid hat,--a long black ribbon displayed over
the rim,--his hair combed so slick, and his little round face and red
cheeks so plump and full of the sailor-boy pertness, with his blue,
braided shirt-collar laid over his jacket, and set off around the neck,
with a black India handkerchief, secured at the throat with the joint
of a shark's backbone. He looked the very picture and pattern of a
Simon-Pure salt. He had wended his way through strange streets and
lanes, with a big haversack under his arm, which Daley had relieved
him of at the door, and brought into the room under his arm. As soon as
Manuel caught a glimpse of him, he rose and clasped the little fellow
in his arms with a fond embrace. No greeting could be more affe