mbled there. He saw a
narrow door bound with iron.

"What is that?" he asked sharply.

"Oh, that is the sweat box," the Secretary replied, "used for
insubordinate seamen----"

"Oh," the rugged giant exclaimed, "how do you work it?"

"The man to be punished is put inside and steam heat is turned on. It
brings him to terms quickly."

The tall figure bent curiously examining the contrivance:

"And we apply this to thousands of brave American seamen every year?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Let me try it and see what it's like."

It was useless to protest. He had already taken off his tall silk hat
and there was a look of quiet determination in his hazel-grey eyes.

He stepped quickly into the enclosure, which he found to be about three
feet in length and about the same in width. His tall figure of six feet
four was practically telescoped.

"Close your door now and turn on the steam," he ordered. "I'll give you
the signal when I've had enough."

The door was closed and the steam turned on.

He stood it three minutes and gave the signal of release.

He stepped out, stretched his long legs, and breathed deeply. He mopped
his brow and there was fire in his sombre eyes as he turned to Welles:

"Mr. Secretary, I want every one of those things dumped into the sea.
Never again allow it to be found on a vessel flying the American flag!"

In an hour every sailor in the harbor had heard the news. The old salts
who had felt its shame and agony lifted their caps and stood with bared
heads, cheering and crying as he passed.

One by one, every country of Europe heard the news and the sweat box
ceased to be an instrument of discipline on every sea of the civilized
world.

Seated at his desk in the White House, he received daily the great and
the humble, and no man or woman came and left without a patient hearing.
There were over thirty thousand cases of trial and condemnations by
court-martial every year now--only a small portion with the death
penalty attached--but all had the right to appeal. They were not slow in
finding the road to the loving heart.

Stanton, worn out by vain protests against his pardons, sent Attorney
General Bates at last.

The great lawyer was very stern as he faced his Chief:

"I regret to say it, Mr. President, but you are not fit to be trusted
with the pardoning power, sir!"

A smile played about the corner of the big kindly mouth as he glanced
over his spectacles at his Attorney General:

"It