“I’m gone now—­gone—­gone—­gone!” he mutters, with a spasmodic effort, covering his face with his hands.

“He’ll go mad; you can only save him with a hair of the same dog,” one of the prisoner’s measuredly suggests, folding his arms, and looking mechanically upon the wretched man.

A second agrees with the first; a third says he is past cure, though a gallon of whiskey were wasted upon him.

Mr. Mingle, the vote-cribber—­regarded good authority in such matters—­interposes.  He has not the shadow of a doubt but that a speedy cure can be effected, by his friends drinking the whiskey, (he will join them, without an objection,) and just letting Tom smell the glass.

A fifth says, without prejudice to the State of South Carolina, if he knew Tom’s mother, he would honestly recommend her to send him special minister to Maine.  There, drinking is rather an aristocratic indulgence, enjoyed only on the sly.

Suddenly the poor inebriate gives vent to his frenzy.  The color of his face changes from pale livid to sickly blue; his hands seem more shrunken and wiry; his body convulses and writhes upon the floor; he is become more the picture of a wild beast, goaded and aggravated in his confinement.  A narcotic, administered by the hand of the jailer, produces quiet, and with the assistance of two prisoners is he raised to his feet, and supported into the corridor, to receive the benefit of fresh air.  Here he remains some twenty minutes, stretched upon two benches, and eyed sharply by the vote-cribber, who paces in a circle round him, regarding him with a half suspicious leer, and twice or thrice pausing to fan his face with the drab felt hat he carries under his arm.

“A curious mother that sends you here for reform,” muses the vote-cribber; “but he must be a perfect fleshhook on the feelings of the family.”

Send him up into Rogue’s Hall,” exclaims a deep, sonorous voice, that echoes along the aisle.  The vote-cribber, having paused over Tom, as if to contemplate his degradation, turns inquiringly, to see from whence comes the voice.  “It is me!” again the voice resounds.  Two glaring eyes, staring anxiously through the small iron grating of a door leading to a close cell on the left of the corridor, betrays the speaker.  “It’s Tom Swiggs.  I know him—­he’s got the hydrophobia; its common with him!  Take him in tow, old Spunyarn, give him a good berth, and let him mellow at thirty cents a day,” continues the voice.

The last sentence the speaker addressed to a man of comely figure and frank countenance, who has just made his appearance, dressed in the garb of a sailor.  This man stoops over Tom, seems to recognize in him an old acquaintance, for his face warms with kindliness, and he straightway commences wiping the sun-scorched face of the inebriate with his handkerchief, and with his hand smooths and parts, with an air of tenderness, his hair; and when he has done this, he spreads the handkerchief over the wretched man’s face, touches the querulous vote-cribber on the arm, and with a significant wink beckons him away, saying, “Come away, now, he has luffed into the wind.  A sleep will do him good.”