his natural life, just for the sake of gettin’ the fees.  They don’t care for such things as you and I. We hain’t no rights; and if we had, why we hain’t no power.  This carryin’ too much head sail, Tom, won’t do-’twon’t!” Spunyarn shakes his head reprovingly, fusses over Tom, turns him over on his wales, as he has it, and finally gets him on his beam’s ends, a besotted wreck unable to carry his canvas.  “Lost yeer reckonin’, eh, Tom?” he continues as that bewildered individual stares vacantly at him.  The inebriate contorts painfully his face, presses and presses his hands to his burning forehead, and says they are firing a salute in his head, using his brains for ammunition.

“Well, now Tom, seein’ as how I’m a friend of yourn—­”

“Friend of mine?” interrupts Tom, shaking his head, and peering through his fingers mistrustfully.

“And this is a hard lee shore you’ve beached upon; I’ll lend ye a hand to get in the head sail, and get the craft trimmed up a little.  A dash of the same brine will help keep the ballast right, then a skysail-yard breakfast must be carefully stowed away, in order to give a firmness to the timbers, and on the strength of these two blocks for shoring up the hull, you must begin little by little, and keep on brightening up until you have got the craft all right again.  And when you have got her right you must keep her right.  I say, Tom!—­it won’t do.  You must reef down, or the devil ’ll seize the helm in one of these blows, and run you into a port too warm for pea-jackets.”  For a moment, Spunyarn seems half inclined to grasp Tom by his collarless coat and shake the hydrophobia, as he calls it, out of him; then, as if incited by a second thought, he draws from his shirt-bosom a large, wooden comb, and humming a tune commences combing and fussing over Tom’s hair, which stands erect over his head like marline-spikes.  At length he gets a craft-like set upon his foretop, and turning his head first to the right, then to the left, as a child does a doll, he views him with an air of exultation.  “I tell you what it is, Tom,” he continues, relieving him of the old coat, “the bright begins to come!  There’s three points of weather made already.”

“God bless you, Spunyarn,” replies Tom, evidently touched by the frankness and generosity of the old sailor.  Indeed there was something so whole-hearted about old Spunyarn, that he was held in universal esteem by every one in jail, with the single exception of Milman Mingle, the vote-cribber.

“Just think of yourself, Tom-don’t mind me,” pursues the sailor as Tom squeezes firmly his hand.  “You’ve had a hard enough time of it—­” Tom interrupts by saying, as he lays his hands upon his sides, he is sore from head to foot.