their conversion to Christianity, that they felt
unable to cope with them on this occasion, so that Bumpus, after being
condemned, was led away to his prison, and left alone to his own
reflections.

It chanced that there was one friend left, unintentionally, in the cell
with the condemned man. This was none other than our friend Toozle, the
mass of ragged door-mat on which Alice doted so fondly. This little dog
had, during the course of the events which have taken so long to
recount, done nothing worthy of being recorded. He had, indeed, been
much in every one's way, when no one had had time or inclination to take
notice of him. He had, being an affectionate dog, and desirous of much
sympathy, courted attention frequently, and had received many kicks and
severe rebuffs for his pains, and he had also, being a tender-hearted
dog, howled dreadfully when he lost his young mistress; but he had not
in any way promoted the interests of humanity or advanced the ends of
justice. Hence our long silence in regard to him.

Recollecting that he had witnessed evidences of a friendly relation
subsisting between Alice and Bumpus, Toozle straightway sought to pour
the overflowing love and sorrow of his large little heart into the bosom
of that supposed pirate. His advances were well received, and from that
hour he followed the seaman like his shadow. He shared his prison with
him, trotted behind him when he walked up and down his room in the
widow's cottage; lay down at his feet when he rested; looked up
inquiringly in his face when he paused to meditate; whined and wagged
his stump of a tail when he was taken notice of, and lay down to sleep
in deep humility when he was neglected.

Thus it came to pass that Toozle attended the trial of Bumpus, entered
his cell along with him, slept with him during the night, accompanied
him to the gallows in the morning, and sat under him, when they were
adjusting the noose, looking up with feelings of unutterable dismay, as
was clearly indicated by the lugubrious and woe-begone cast of his
ragged countenance,--but we are anticipating.

It was on the morning of his execution that Bumpus sat on the edge of
his hard pallet, gazed at his manacled wrists, and gave vent to the
sentiments set down at the beginning of this chapter.

Toozle sat at his feet looking up in his face sympathetically.

"No, I _don't_ believe it's possible," said Bumpus, for at least the
hundredth time that morning. "It