e their heads in response.

"No, you don't know me: you never knew me when I was a man," speaks the
stranger, raising his hat, as a smile lights up his features. "You don't
know Tom Swiggs, the miserable inebriate--"

A spontaneous shout of recognition, echoing and reechoing through the
old halls, interrupts this declaration. One by one the imprisoned men
grasp him by the hand, and shower upon him the warmest, the heartiest
congratulations. A once fallen brother has risen to a knowledge of his
own happiness. Hands that raised him from that mat of straw, when the
mental man seemed lost, now welcome him restored, a purer being.

"Ah, Spunyarn," says Tom, greeting the old sailor with childlike
fondness, as the tears are seen gushing into the eyes, and coursing down
the browned face of the old mariner, "I owe you a debt I fear I never
can pay. I have thought of you in my absence, and had hoped on my return
to see you released. I am sorry you are not--"

"Well, as to that," interrupts the old sailor, his face resuming its
wonted calm, "I can't--you know I can't, Tom,--sail without a clearance.
I sometimes think I'm never going to get one. Two years, as you know,
I've been here, now backing and then filling, in and out, just as it
suits that chap with the face like a snatch-block. They call him a
justice. 'Pon my soul, Tom, I begin to think justice for us poor folks
is got aground. Well, give us your hand agin' (he seizes Tom by the
hand); its all well wi' you, anyhows.'

"Yes, thank God," says Tom, returning his friendly shake, "I have
conquered the enemy, and my thanks for it are due to those who reached
my heart with kind words, and gave me a brother's hand. I was not dead
to my own degradation; but imprisonment left me no hope. The sting of
disappointment may pain your feelings; hope deferred may torture you
here in a prison; the persecutions of enemies may madden your very soul;
but when a mother turns coldly from you--No, I will not say it, for I
love her still--" he hesitates, as the old sailor says, with touching
simplicity, he never knew what it was to have a mother or father. Having
spread before the old man and his companions sundry refreshments he had
ordered brought in, and received in return their thanks, he inquires of
Spunyarn how it happened that he got into prison, and how it is that he
remains here a fixture.

"I'll tell you, Tom," says the old sailor, commencing his story. "We'd
just come ashore--had