ragged undershirt
and pantaloons.

"Get a bucket and rag and scrub out this cell!"

He flourished his cudgel. The vagrant cast a quick glance at him, and
answered quietly, but with burning face:--

"I'll die first."

A blow with the cudgel, a cry of rage, a clash together, a push, a
sledge-hammer fist in the side, another on the head, a fall out into
the yard, and the vagrant lay senseless on the flags.

When he opened his eyes again, and struggled to his feet, a gentle grasp
was on his arm. Somebody was steadying him. He turned his eyes. Ah! who
is this? A short, heavy, close-shaven man, with a woollen jacket thrown
over one shoulder and its sleeves tied together in a knot under the
other. He speaks in a low, kind tone:--

"Steady, Mr. Richling!"

Richling supported himself by a hand on the man's arm, gazed in
bewilderment at the gentle eyes that met his, and with a slow gesture of
astonishment murmured, "Ristofalo!" and dropped his head.

The Italian had just entered the prison from another station-house. With
his hand still on Richling's shoulder, and Richling's on his, he caught
the eye of the captain of the yard, who was striding quietly up and down
near by, and gave him a nod to indicate that he would soon adjust
everything to that autocrat's satisfaction. Richling, dazed and
trembling, kept his eyes still on the ground, while Ristofalo moved with
him slowly away from the squalid group that gazed after them. They went
toward the Italian's cell.

"Why are you in prison?" asked the vagrant, feebly.

"Oh, nothin' much--witness in shootin' scrape--talk 'bout aft' while."

"O Ristofalo," groaned Richling, as they entered, "my wife! my wife!
Send some bread to my wife!"

"Lie down," said the Italian, pressing softly on his shoulders; but
Richling as quietly resisted.

"She is near here, Ristofalo. You can send with the greatest ease! You
can do anything, Ristofalo,--if you only choose!"

"Lay down," said the Italian again, and pressed more heavily. The
vagrant sank limply to the pavement, his companion quickly untying the
jacket sleeves from under his own arms and wadding the garment under
Richling's head.

"Do you know what I'm in here for, Ristofalo?" moaned Richling.

"Don't know, don't care. Yo' wife know you here?" Richling shook his
head on the jacket. The Italian asked her address, and Richling gave it.

"Goin' tell her come and see you," said the Italian. "Now, you lay still
little while;