An Outcast | Page 6

calls run to the dogs.
That's what whisky's did for him."
"And what it will do for you one of these days," interrupts the jailer,
admonishingly. "Up for disturbing the peace at Madame Flamingo's.
Committed by Justice Snivel."
"Throwing stones by way of repentance, eh? Tom was, at one time, as
good a customer as that house had. A man's welcome at that house
when he's up in the world. He's sure a gittin' kicked out when he is
down."
"He's here, and we must get him to a cell," says the jailer, setting his
key down and preparing to lift the man on his feet.
"Look a here, Tom Swiggs,--in here again, eh?" resumes the man in the
red shirt. "Looks as if you liked the institution. Nice son of a
respectable mother, you is!" He stoops down and shakes the prostrate
man violently.
The man opens his eyes, and casts a wild glance on the group of wan
faces peering eagerly at him. "I am bad enough. You are no better than
me," he whispers. "You are always here."

"Not always. I am a nine months' guest. In for cribbing voters. Let out
when election day comes round, and paid well for my services. Sent up
when election is over, and friends get few. No moral harm in cribbing
voters. You wouldn't be worth cribbing, eh, Tom? There ain't no
politician what do'nt take off his hat, and say--'Glad to see you, Mister
Mingle,' just afore election." The man folds his arms and walks sullenly
down the corridor, leaving the newcomer to his own reflections. There
is a movement among the group looking on; and a man in the garb of a
sailor advances, presses his way through, and seizing the prostrate by
the hand, shakes it warmly and kindly. "Sorry to see you in here agin,
Tom," he says, his bronzed face lighting up with the fires of a generous
heart. "There's no man in this jail shall say a word agin Tom Swiggs.
We have sailed shipmates in this old craft afore."
The man was a sailor, and the prisoner's called him Spunyarn, by way
of shortness. Indeed, he had became so familiarized to the name, that he
would answer to none other. His friendship for the inebriate was of the
most sincere kind. He would watch over him, and nurse him into
sobriety, with the care and tenderness of a brother. "Tom was good to
me, when he had it;" he says, with an air of sympathy. "And here goes
for lendin' a hand to a shipmate in distress." He takes one arm and the
jailer the other, and together they support the inebriate to his cell. "Set
me down for a steady boarder, and have done with it," the forlorn man
mutters, as they lay him gently upon the hard cot. "Down for steady
board, jailer--that's it."
"Steady, steady now," rejoins the old sailor, as the inebriate tosses his
arms over his head. "You see, there's a heavy ground swell on just now,
and a chap what don't mind his helm is sure to get his spars shivered."
He addresses the the jailer, who stands looking with an air of
commiseration on the prostrate man. "Take in head-sail--furl
top-gallant-sails--reef topsails--haul aft main-sheet--put her helm hard
down--bring her to the wind, and there let her lay until it comes clear
weather." The man writhes and turns his body uneasily. "There, there,"
continues the old sailor, soothingly; "steady, steady,--keep her away a
little, then let her luff into a sound sleep. Old Spunyarn's the boy what'll
stand watch." A few minutes more and the man is in a deep, sound

sleep, the old sailor keeping watch over him so kindly, so like a true
friend.
CHAPTER II.
THE HOUSE OF A VERY DISTINGUISHED LADY.
The mansion of Madame Flamingo stands stately in Berresford street.
An air of mystery hangs over it by day, and it is there young Charleston
holds high carnival at night. It is a very distinguished house, and
Madame Flamingo assures us she is a very distinguished lady, who
means to make her peace with heaven before she dies, and bestow
largely on the priests, who have promised to make her comfortable
while on the road through purgatory. The house is in high favor with
young Charleston, and old Charleston looks in now and then. Our city
fathers have great sympathy for it, and protect it with their presence.
Verily it is a great gate on the road to ruin, and thousands pass
heedlessly through its decorated walks, quickly reaching the dark end.
It is evening, and thin fleecy clouds flit along the heavens. The gas
sheds a pale light over the streets, and shadowy figures pass and repass
us as we turn into the