“Hallo!  Tom,” exclaims George, as he enters the cell, “boarding at the expense of the State yet, eh?” Tom lay stretched on a blanket in one corner of the cell, his faithful old friend, the sailor, watching over him with the solicitude of a brother.  “I don’t know how he’d got on if it hadn’t bin for the old sailor, yonder,” says the jailer, pointing to Spunyarn, who is crouched down at the great black fire-place, blowing the coals under a small pan.  “He took to Tom when he first came in, and hasn’t left him for a day.  He’ll steal to supply Tom’s hunger, and fight if a prisoner attempts to impose upon his charge.  He has rigged him out, you see, with his pea-coat and overalls,” continues the man, folding his arms.

“I am sorry, Tom—­”

“Yes,” says Tom, interrupting the young theologian, “I know you are.  You don’t find me to have kept my word; and because I haven’t you don’t find me improved much.  I can’t get out; and if I can’t get out, what’s the use of my trying to improve?  I don’t say this because I don’t want to improve.  I have no one living who ought to care for me, but my mother.  And she has shown what she cares for me.”

“Everything is well. (The young theologian takes Tom by the hand.) We have got your release.  You are a free man, now.”

“My release!” exclaims the poor outcast, starting to his feet, “my release?”

“Yes,” kindly interposes the jailer, “you may go, Tom.  Stone walls, bolts and chains have no further use for you.”  The announcement brings tears to his eyes; he cannot find words to give utterance to his emotions.  He drops the young theologian’s hand, grasps warmly that of George Mullholland, and says, the tears falling fast down his cheeks, “now I will be a new man.”

“God bless Tom,” rejoins the old sailor, who has left the fire-place and joined in the excitement of the moment.  “I alwas sed there war better weather ahead, Tom.”  He pats him encouragingly on the shoulder, and turns to the bystanders, continuing with a childlike frankness:  “he’s alwas complained with himself about breaking his word and honor with you, sir—­”

The young theologian says the temptation was more than he could withstand.

“Yes sir!—­that was it.  He, poor fellow, wasn’t to blame.  One brought him in a drop, and challenged him; then another brought him in a drop, and challenged him; and the vote-cribber would get generous now and then, and bring him a drop, saying how he would like to crib him if he was only out, on the general election coming on, and make him take a drop of what he called election whiskey.  And you know, sir, it’s hard for a body to stand up against all these things, specially when a body’s bin disappointed in love.  It’s bin a hard up and down with him.  To-day he would make a bit of good weather, and to-morrow he’d be all up in a hurricane.”  And the old sailor takes a fresh quid of tobacco, wipes Tom’s face, gets the brush and fusses over him, and tells him to cheer up, now that he has got his clearance.