l draws his chair to the
table, upon which he places his left elbow, rests his head on his hand.
"This fellow will get out; his mother--I have pledged my honor to keep
him fast locked up--will find it out, and there'll be a fuss among our
first families," he whispers. Anna pledges him her honor, a thing she
never betrays, that the secret of Tom's release shall be a matter of
strict confidence. And having shook hands over it, Mr. Snivel seizes the
pen and writes an order of release, commanding the jailer to set at
liberty one Tom Swiggs, committed as a vagrant upon a justice's warrant,
&c., &c., &c. "There," says Justice Snivel, "the thing is done--now for
a kiss;" and the fair girl permits him to kiss her brow. "Me too; the
bench and the bar!" rejoins the Judge, following the example of his
junior. And with an air of triumph the victorious girl bears away what
at this moment she values a prize.

CHAPTER XVI.

IN WHICH TOM SWIGGS GAINS HIS LIBERTY, AND WHAT BEFALLS HIM.

Anna gives George Mullholland the letter of release, and on the
succeeding morning he is seen entering at the iron gate of the wall that
encloses the old prison. "Bread! give me bread," greets his ear as soon
as he enters the sombre old pile. He walks through the debtors' floor,
startles as he hears the stifled cry for bread, and contemplates with
pained feelings the wasting forms and sickly faces that everywhere meet
his eye. The same piercing cry grates upon his senses as he sallies
along the damp, narrow aisle of the second floor, lined on both sides
with small, filthy cells, in which are incarcerated men whose crime is
that of having committed "assault and battery," and British seamen
innocent of all crime except that of having a colored skin. If anything
less than a gentleman commit assault and battery, we punish him with
imprisonment; we have no law to punish gentlemen who commit such
offences.

Along the felon's aisle--in the malarious cells where "poor" murderers
and burglars are chained to die of the poisonous atmosphere, the same
cry tells its mournful tale. Look into the dark vista of this little
passage, and you will see the gleaming of flabby arms and shrunken
hands. Glance into the apertures out of which they protrude so
appealingly, you will hear the dull clank of chains, see the glare of
vacant eyes, and shudder at the pale, cadaverous faces of beings
tortured with starvation. A low, hoarse whisper, asks you for bread; a
list