Chapter VI (2)

The building used for the graceless evil-doers and penniless paupers of this vicinity was not a very sightly object, and its appearance was in keeping with its hideous character. It was a square, two-storied building, without any paint; the clapboards and roof were gray and mossy; storms and sunshine had played upon it for fifty years; and it was none the better for its age. In the upper story could be seen one room, with a small window at the end, with iron bars crossing sufficiently near together to keep a prisoner from getting through, if he was somewhat corpulent; but most rogues and poor men, that were not very stout, could, if so disposed, have found a way out with a little hard squeezing. But whether any did ever get out in that way I never learned--perhaps the sight of the iron was enough. The other apartments of the house had windows open as one could desire; glass may once have formed some obstruction, to the birds at least; but it had disappeared 'long time ago,' and in that place thereof, shingles, old hats, old clothes--any thing that would keep out the rain and the cold for the time being, was substituted. It was inhabited by a family, which, for want of all those qualities and qualifications that would have fitted them for any other situation, were content to abide here. Old Adam Tice had never been able to comprehend the difference between mine and thine. He was not particularly bad in any other way; but it was generally thought that his boys would, in time, carry out his principles a little beyond their parent; and his son Bill, whom we have been introduced to at Mr. Grizzle's, had, on more than one occasion, enjoyed the occupancy of the room with the grated window.

As there was but one apartment in this building suited for close confinement, it sometimes occurred that an unfortunate debtor, who had no friend to bail him out, so as to allow him the privilege, if such he should esteem it, of ranging the lot on which the house was built, and taking up his abode with Mr. Tice, must share the grated room with some vile character whose deeds against humanity had brought him there; and such was the case now. Two notorious vagabonds, guilty of flagrant crimes, the very offscouring of the earth, were there; and nightly they filled the old jail with noise and riot, as though fiends were holding their orgies. It made even old Tice shudder, as their horrid oaths rang through the building in the darkness of the night; and he almost regretted that he had procured the liquor which had thus given them the inspiration of demons.

I shall not attempt to describe the feelings of poor Mr. Oakum when he heard the key turned upon him, and found himself in such company. Some straw was placed for him at one end of the room, out of the reach of his fellow-prisoners, who were chained. He tottered towards it, and was glad to cast himself down upon it. Sorrow will sometimes lull her suffering children to sleep: oblivion, like a handmaid of charity, steals upon them and shuts up the senses. Helpless, and almost hopeless, his mind could no longer bear the thoughts that haunted it, but settled down into unconsciousness. Occasionally some dreadful oath would rouse him, or the deep rolling thunder, but only for a moment; when thoughts of home, and wife, and children, would with lightning speed flash upon his mind, and then, overpowered with his sad condition, he would again sink into unconsciousness.

At length he started from his bed of straw, awakened by the spring of the heavy bolt that was suddenly drawn back. He cast his eager glance upon the door; a light glimmered through a small square aperture at the top--the latch was raised--his senses he feared were leaving him; for there stood Sam, his dear, good child. Mr. Tice threw the light of his lamp upon that corner of the room, and Sam walked directly to his father.

'Oh, my dear boy, is that you? is it you, Sam?'

'I thought I would come and stay with you to-night, father.'

'Oh, Sam, I do not mind this for my own sake; I deserve it: my own foolishness has brought this on to me.'

'Don't talk so, father; you haven't done wrong. I will get you out, yet, and it will all be better than ever.'

His father could make no reply; his heart was melted, and thoughts different from any he had ever indulged before began to agitate him. God had not forsaken him; this child was an angel of mercy, sent to cheer his gloom and give hope to his heart. New and strange feelings towards his God arose from within--how good, how forbearing, how full of compassion. New feelings in regard to himself oppressed him. A great sinner, both towards God and the dear ones God had given him, could he be pardoned? He remembered the thief upon the cross; and his whole heart arose in one strong impulse--'Lord, help me! save me!' It was a simple prayer--it was only breathed--but it was heard in heaven. And swift as angels fly, sweet peace came down and stole into his bosom, and there, amid that gloom and in that dire abode, whispered of pardon, and hope, and a Friend above.

But where did Sam obtain that strong assurance that all would yet be well--_better_ than ever? It was no fiction invented to soothe his father's troubled mind. Sam really felt and truly believed it would be so. Ever since that dark hour upon the rock by the water-side, when his companions came to him with their plan of enterprise, had _resolution_, strong as his love of life, nerved his heart. He had since then tasted the rich fruits of honest labor; and his eyes were enlightened, and his hope and courage made strong. His parents and sisters had already been made happy by his exertions, and his way was enlarging before him. The present hour was one of severe trial, but his courage was not shaken by it, and he believed most firmly that it would be with them 'better than it had ever been.'

It was a beautiful morning when Sam left the jail, and hurried on his way to carry what comfort he could to his home. He would have avoided every human being if he could, but just as he was about to pass the road which ran down to the blacksmith's shop, Mr. Cutter's two boys saw him, and being social fellows, ran up, and began, in their free-and-easy boy's style, to question him about what he was doing there that time of day, and where he had been, and so on. Sam's heart was about as full as it could hold. They were wild boys, but of a kind nature, and felt a right good-will towards Sam. They perceived that he was in trouble, for the tears stood in his eyes when they spoke to him.

'Now, Sam, what's the matter? tell me who's been hurting you. I'll give it to him--who is it? See if I don't.' And Bill Cutter doubled up his fists, and put himself in a posture to go right at it. Sam Cutter was a little softer in his composition than his brother; and while Bill was putting himself into a great rage with somebody or other, he did not care who, Sam put his hand on the shoulder of his companion:

'Tell me, Sam, what's the matter.' The storm, which had been so long pent up, broke forth; this made both boys more solicitous to find out the cause of his trouble, until Sam was compelled to tell the whole.

No sooner had they heard the story, than, seizing Sam, each by an arm, they fairly forced him along.

'Come along, right in, Sam Oakum, and tell father all about it.'

And on he had to go, straight through the old shop, into a little back yard, and then into a little old house. The table was in the middle of the floor, on which lay the remains of the breakfast which had just been eaten.

Mrs. Cutter was stooping over the fire, and doing something with a kettle which hung there; and as they entered, she turned her very large eyes upon the boys. I say large, because they were naturally very expansive, and because she wore on the bridge of her nose, right before them, a pair of nose spectacles; they were large, too, in contrast with the other features of her countenance, for while these were very round and full, everything else in sight was very long and sharp; her nose was long, and her chin was long, and her hands and arms were long; and other limbs long too, for when she let go the kettle and raised herself up, she appeared all length--of breadth there was nothing to mention, except the eyes.

'What upon airth is the matter? what are you doin' with that boy? See, Cutter, they've been a hurtin' on him--he's a cryin' now--oh the massys! Let him go, you good-for-_nothins you_, let him _go_.'

'No, we ain't been hurting him, neither--what do you think, father? they've been putting Sam Oakum's father in the old cage, they have.'

Mr. Cutter was sitting yet at the table; _he_ and his good woman were the reverse of each other, in more ways than one. He was, as we have seen, very large and full-bodied. Standing and walking and going about, seemed to be, each of them, her natural situation; while with him, standing was not to be thought of if there was any chance for a seat; and when once at the table he seemed willing there to stay, until Mrs. Cutter had cleared plates, dishes, and the table itself from before him. As the boys entered he pushed himself round, and looked in quiet amazement at them.

'Who is _they_? who's put him in jail?'

'Old Grizzle, father; only think. If I ain't a mind to kill the old varmint; I'll burn his house down.'

'_Whist, hush, hold your tongue_, you scoundrel; how dare you talk so?'

And the old man, in his energy to do something to show his displeasure at such threats, caught hold of the pitcher, which yet stood on the table before him, and thinking not of its contents, elevated it above his head in a threatening manner at his lawless son. Cider he liked well enough in its proper place; but a shower of it on his bald head, and in his eyes, and so on, was another thing. It took him by surprise--he let the pitcher go, and put his hands to the afflicted parts.

Crockery is brittle stuff; it could not stand every thing, any more than Mrs. Cutter's temper could. To see the look of horror she cast upon the dripping head of her husband, and then at the broken pieces of her pitcher, the very last thing in the house 'her mother gin' her,' as she often said; with her long arms and bony fingers stretched out in the air, was rather frightful: The moment the old man could recover himself sufficiently to realize what he had done, and what he had to expect, he exclaimed, very significantly,

'Oh dear!' and rose up as hastily as he could, designing to retreat to his shop, his usual refuge from a storm.

'_Oh dear!_ you may well say so--of _all things_. Well, Cutter, now you see what you've done. I've told you it would be so; the very last thing my mother gin' me--slam it right down on the harth--isn't that purty? you've been breakin' and breakin' all your life; and now you've broke the pitcher.'

He said not a word in reply, but taking hold of Sam Oakum pulled him along towards the shop. Finding that her husband was fast retreating from the sound of her voice, she turned the battery upon her two boys, who were eyeing the broken crockery with no very equivocal looks,

'And _you_, you villains! comin' and settin' your father crazy with your lies--_out_ of the house with you, this instant.' And she made a push for the broomstick. They understood her kind intentions right well, having had large experience in that way, and did not wait for any further instructions; but made after their father with all speed.

Once in the shop, the old man felt safe. He had kept fast hold of Sam, and sitting down on his usual block, held him off at arms-length with one hand, while with the other, and the aid of an old handkerchief, he wiped down his bald head, and round, good-natured countenance.

'Oh dear! it was unlucky about that pitcher, I shall never hear the last on it. Tell me now, Sam, what is all this? It ain't true--is it? that old varmint ain't put your father in jail, has he? Don't cry now, but just tell me the whole on it.'

Sam told his story as well as he could, but it was hard work. He could command his feelings very well, when only thinking about it; but when compelled to speak his father's name, his lip trembled, and the words came out with great difficulty. Mr. Cutter had a very tender heart of his own, and Sam's story and appearance worked upon him more and more; so that he kept the old handkerchief wiping away long after the cider shower had dried off.

'And why didn't you come to me, and tell me about it? Ain't I known your father from a boy, and your mother too--bless her good soul; and do you think I would have let such doings as these gone on? That old varmint--is that the way he is goin' to serve folks? Send 'em to jail, to lay there with them dreadful rapscallions? Oh dear!--jist to think on it! And you was comin' here to tell me about it this morning; wasn't you, Sam?'

'No, sir, I was going home.'

'Going _home_? Why, where have you been?'

'I've been with father all night.'

'_You?_ He didn't put you there _too_, did he? the old sinner!'

'Oh no, sir, but I went there to stay with him. I thought father would feel so bad.'

'You blessed child! Oh dear, what are we comin' to? And you ain't had no breakfast. Here, boys, go in and ask your mother to give this poor child a little something.'

'Oh no, sir, I thank you; I can't stay; for mother will feel bad if I don't go home; and I ain't hungry a bit.'

'Yes, you are hungry--you know you are--only you feel so bad, you can't eat. But I tell you, don't feel bad; you mustn't. Your father _shan't_ stay there in that hole; I tell you he _shan't_! He shall see that he's got some friends. We ain't all dead and buried yet, I hope.'

'Oh, Mr. Cutter!' and Sam, as he said this, caught hold of him with both his hands; 'if you can do any thing to help to get my father out of that dreadful place, I will thank you all my life for it, and I will pay you every cent of the money, just as fast as I can earn it.' And he looked so earnestly into Mr. Cutter's face, and his bright black eyes sparkled with such an intensity of feeling, that the old man's heart must have been made of much _sterner_ stuff than it was, not to have felt the appeal.

'There, go home--go home, Sam; don't say no more.' And he fairly pushed Sam away from him; and then he kept the old handkerchief going for some time, not saying a word to either of his boys, who stood looking after Sam, as he went away, and pitying him from their hearts.

'Now, boys, go and catch the old mare, and hitch her to the cart; and one of you must drive me to Billy Bloodgood's. Billy must help about this business, if I can only make him hear any thing; but it's like raising the dead.'

The boys went off with a good will, and soon had the old nag tackled to the cart, her harness being of a very simple kind, and easily adjusted.

Mr. Cutter had a way of his own about almost every thing, and it extended even to his manner of riding. Too bulky to climb very high places, he chose, generally, the lowest seat he could find; and the tail of the cart being more easily attained than any other part, and moreover, being easily resigned in case of accident, whenever Mr. Cutter rode, _that_ was his place. He would sit pretty well in on the body, with his legs dangling behind, and one hand on each of the side-boards. To an observer, it appeared to be a very uneasy situation; for the mare had a peculiar gait, something between a rack and a pace, which not only imparted a quick up-and-down motion to the stern of the vehicle, but a lateral one likewise; so that from the time she started until she stopped, Mr. Cutter was not only carried onward, but every which way: there was no quiet for his body. He never complained of it, however, nor seemed to realize any thing out of the way.

Billy Bloodgood was just going out of his gate when Mr. Cutter drove up. Knowing that it would be useless trying to hold a parley with him out there, he told his son to drive close to the door; and taking Mr. Bloodgood by the arm, pulled him along, determined not to let him go, as he was well acquainted with his peculiarities. So, holding on with one hand to the side of the doorway, and with the other to his friend, he entered into Mrs. Bloodgood's sanctum--her kitchen, parlor, and bedroom. Puffing and blowing, he seized the first chair he could find, and bestowed himself upon it.

'Now, woman, do you make this husband of your's sit down, for I want to talk to him; and he'll be running off if you don't see to him.'

'Why, what's the matter, Uncle Sam? you're all in a heat, and out o' breath. Ain't nothing happened to home, has there?'

'Happened? Yes, there has something happened--there's always something or other happening in this world; but that ain't neither here nor there. I can get along with that. The wind will have its blow out, and then it will stop, and so must a woman's tongue. But I tell you, make that man of your's sit down, and do you come and listen to me, and then try to git it into his head, for it's beyond me to do it.'

Mrs. Bloodgood did as she was bidden; for she had great respect for Uncle Sam Cutter. She placed a seat close beside him for her husband, and another for herself, immediately before him.

'Do you know that our neighbor Oakum is in jail?'

'In jail! Oh dear, how you _do_ talk!'

'It is true--I tell you so.'

'Then it's Grizzle--I know it is. First, he's 'ticed him to drink, and then he's come upon him. Ain't it so, Uncle Sam?'

'Yes; but hear me. Oakum ain't the man he was--don't you know that? He's a clean changed man. He's to work now every day, and brings home all his earnings every night to his family, and stays to home, and acts like a man; and his wife looks like a new critter, and things all round his house look so you wouldn't hardly know it. And now, jist as they are beginning to be a little like folks, and have things right end up, that old varmint takes the law on him, and puts him in the old cage, among them rapscallions there, jist as if he was a thief or a murderer.'

'Oh dear! jist to think on it.'

'And there's that blessed child of his been through all the rain and thunder and lightning, and went and stayed there all night, because he couldn't bear to leave his father alone--jist think of that; and that poor woman, all stark alone with them little children--jist think of that. Don't it make your heart ache?'

'Oh dear, dear! what are we comin' to?--jist think of it.'

Mrs. Bloodgood had her own peculiar ways, and was not always very particular what she said or did, when overcome by the little vexations of life; but she had a feeling heart, and would cry as hard as she would scold, if there was any thing calculated in an especial manner to bring tears; and now they were chasing each other down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away.

'I don't wonder you cry about it. I tell you what: when that little fellow took hold on me this morning, and begged me to help his father, and looked up at me so pitiful, and said that he would thank me all his life, and pay every cent of the debt as fast as he could earn it--why I tell you, Sally, I cried like a child. And now, I tell you what it is; we mustn't leave that man lying there like a thief. I can't eat, nor sleep--I can't do it, Sally. I haven't got but little; but Billy must help--it's thirty dollars. I know it's a great deal for poor folks to raise, but it must be done, somehow--mustn't it, Sally?'

Mr. Bloodgood had been a silent spectator of the scene--he could not be said to be a listener. He saw that Mr. Cutter was very much engaged, and that his wife was quite to the other extremity of her feelings; but what was to pay he did not know. He kept looking first at one, and then at the other, for some explanation, taking large pinches of snuff all the time from a horn box which he held in his hand.

'Any body _dead_?'

Mrs. Bloodgood put her nose close to his ear, and hallooed--'No!'

Mr. Cutter pushed his chair back a little--the unearthly noise startled him.

'Why! do you have to holler at that rate? I should think you'd split your throat, or your nose, or something or other. I never heard such a noise.'

'Oh dear! I tell you, Uncle Sam, he gits wus and wus. I do candidly believe it's the snuff; he stops every thing up with it. His head ain't got no more sound to it than the harth stone.'

'Well, I don't know but it's the best thing he can do, if he's got to have sich noises as them made in it. I should want to stop every thing up too; and how upon airth you are ever going to tell him what I want, I don't see. Let me get a little ways off afore you begin; my head sings now like a dozen teakettles.'

With that the old man pushed his chair off against the opposite wall, while Mrs. Bloodgood undertook the task of explaining matters to her husband, and she accomplished it in much less time than could have been expected. Being nowise friendly to Mr. Grizzle, she handled his name in a very free way; and as her husband confided in her management, when she was through with the story, he looked at her very significantly--

'Shall I do it, Sally?'

'Yes, yes; do it--quick.'

So he looked at Mr. Cutter, smiled, and nodded, and then left the room.

'Well, well; all things was made for some use. I often wondered what your nose was made for, but I see now. But it will be the death of you, yet; you'll split something or other one of these days.'

'Why, no, Uncle Sam, you see I'm used to it; but it does make me weak at the stomach like, it takes sich a power of wind to keep it up any time so; a body can holler pretty loud two or three words, and not mind it. But I s'pose it's my lot, and I must be content with it.'

Mr. Bloodgood soon returned, making signs to Uncle Sam to draw up to the table. We must leave them to arrange matters, and carry out their kind designs as best they may be able.

How beautifully the water sparkled with the bright rays of the morning sun, and how clean the shore looked, and how fresh every thing appeared, as Sam drew near to his home; but how very sad his heart was, none but such as have suffered like him can well imagine. But sad as were his feelings, it did not hinder his attending to all the duties which devolved upon him. The net was examined, and the fish for the morning's meal brought up. The pigs were fed, and the boat looked after, and all things done as usual. It was a solitary meal, _that breakfast_, and soon ended. But the best fish were frying by the fire, and on the griddle was a fine thick bread-cake cooking, and a little basket was brought and placed on the table, and a clean cloth lay beside the basket; and Sam had his hat in his hand, and was leaning against the fireplace, watching his mother, as she went about the little room getting things together.

'May be he'd like a little pickle, mother. You know he eats it sometimes with his breakfast.' And the mother made no reply; but wiping away the tears that started as reference was made to him, she went directly to the cupboard and brought the pot of pickles; and then the fish was taken from the fire, and placed on a plate and put into the basket; and the cake was taken from the griddle, and broken in two and laid on the fish; and the pickle, and a little salt and pepper, and a knife and fork; and then the clean cloth was put over the whole, and Sam, taking the basket, walked straight out of the house, and his mother threw herself into the chair, and wept aloud.

As Sam ascended the little rise of ground behind their dwelling, he looked across to the house of his friends, Jim and Ned, to see if they were out--as he then felt a sight of them would be good. There they were, working away in their garden. Presently one of them stops and looks round, walks to the fence, jumps over, and is running toward Sam, with Jowler after him.

'There comes Ned. What shall I say to him?'

'Sam, how are you? ain't this a beautiful morning? What have you got in your basket? where are you going?'

'Oh, I am going a short distance.'

'If you are not going too far, I'll go with you. I'm tired of hoeing. Jim has had me up ever since daybreak, and I mean to rest a few minutes. But what is the matter, Sam? What makes you look so? You ain't well, are you?'

Sam did look pale, for he was alarmed at Ned's offer to accompany him.

'Oh, I think you had better not go with me: it is something of a walk, and as you have been at work so long, you will be tired.'

'No; I shan't be tired. But now, Sam Oakum, tell me what's the matter,' at the same time taking hold of him. 'There is something the matter, I know--you always tell me every thing.'

'I know I do, Ned; but somehow I do not like to tell you this. Haven't you heard any thing.'

'_Heard_ any thing? No. Do you think we should not have been down to see you, if we had known that any thing was the matter? But _do_ tell me, Sam.'

'Father is in jail.'

'That's Grizzle.'

'Yes.'

Ned stooped and caught up a good-sized stone, and aiming it at another still larger, sent it with such force that it was shivered into small fragments. He then looked at Sam a moment, with his hands in his pockets. He dared not speak, for his heart was aching so hard. It would have been a great relief to have cried; but Ned never cried--he could do any thing but that. He felt so much like it now though, as he kept his eyes on Sam, who looked so sad and pale, that all at once he turned short round, and walked away towards home; and Sam went on his way toward the jail.

The two miserable beings who had filled the old jail with their ravings through most of the night, were now asleep; and as Sam was admitted again into the miserable room, he cast his eye upon them as they lay in all their loathsomeness. Never before had he seen human nature in such an appalling form--their garments filthy, and torn into shreds; their hair, long and matted, lay over their faces and among the straw which formed their bed; their faces bloated, bruised, and bloody. He shrunk back involuntarily. He cast his eye to the further end of the room, and it met the smile of his father. He hurried past these dreadful objects, and placed his basket beside his pale and sorrow-stricken parent. Sam started, when he saw how _very_ pale he looked, and how great a change his countenance had undergone since he last saw the daylight shine upon it. He took off the cloth which covered the basket, and upon that he placed the good breakfast his mother had prepared; and then he saw his father put his hands together, and that his eyes were closed, and his lips moved. He had never known him to do so before. Could it be that he was praying for a blessing, ere he tasted this token of love from earthly dear ones and heaven's bounteous King? Oh, Sam! how little can you realize the ordeal that parent has passed since the last setting sun. But the agony that racked his spirit has purified it also; and it has turned, 'trembling, hoping,' to its God. When years have passed, and you shall stand by his dying bed, and walk in the church-yard where rises the little mound of earth over the resting-place of his body, you will think of this night, and you will bless God for his goodness to you and your's.

'It is very good, Sam; and it is very kind in you all to think of me so.'

'Oh, father, don't say so; it makes me feel so bad.'

'To think how much trouble I have been to my family.'

Sam could stand it no longer, but wept aloud.

'I don't wish to make you feel bad, Sam; but all your kind feelings, and all your mother's kind feelings, make me think how wrong I have acted, and wonder how anybody can care for me.'

'But they do care for you--everybody cares for you. Uncle Sam Cutter says you shan't stay here--_that_ you shan't.'

'Did he say so? Well, I thank him for his kind feelings; and I hope, if the Lord please, I may get my liberty soon, that I may be able to work and earn an honest living, and pay my debts. But, Sam, this place ain't so bad, gloomy as it looks. A bad life and a guilty conscience are harder things to get along with than this jail. I have spent worse hours, looking at you and your mother, and the little ones, with a fire burning in my bosom, than I spent here last night. I never knew before that there could be such things.'

'What things, father?'

'Why, Sam, that there could be such peace within, when all about me was so horrible. But I believe God has done it--and all for my good. He does everything for good.'

Sam was utterly confounded at hearing such words from his father; but he rejoiced to hear them. He sat as long as he thought consistent with duties at home, and was preparing to return, when their attention was arrested by a bustle below stairs, and a loud puffing and blowing of some one ascending to the room.

'What steps you've got here, Mr. Tice!--so high, I can hardly get my old carcass up. Oh, dear, dear, dear; what a world this is!'

The heavy bolt was drawn; and as the door, creaking on its hinges, slowly opened, the portly form of Mr. Samuel Cutter appeared, filling the open space, and looking with a wild stare into and around the room.

'You can go clean in, Mr. Cutter, an you like to; and I'll shut the door, and you may stay as long as you like.'

'You will, hey? No, no, Mr. Tice, thank you, I'll do well enough here;' at the same time putting his hand out, and holding fast to the door. 'None of your shutting up; it's bad enough to look at, without your turning the old lock on a body. _Of all sights!_--are these men dead?'

'Oh it ain't nothin', Mr. Cutter; only they've been a little lively last night, and they're a sleepin' it out, I guess, this mornin'.'

'You don't call them human critters, laying there in that shape, Mr. Tice, do you?'

'Yes, they _be_, only their hair is got tangled a little. I should a'most think they'd been a fightin', by their looks--they _do_ look bad, that's a fact.'

More noises were now heard below, and there was the trampling of horses at the door, and soon a lively treading up the stairs.

'What does this mean, Mr. Tice? the jail door open, and people going in and out. Are the prisoners gone?' And Mr. Richard Tucker bustled up into the room. He was followed by Billy Bloodgood, and Uncle Sam Cutter's two boys. Mr. Richard seeing the doorway barricaded by a pretty large body, made no apology for hastily pushing through, and fairly taking the old gentleman quite into the room. He was about to shut the door when his arm was seized, and held by a grip as effectual as though an iron vice had embraced it.

'Stop, stop, man; none of your shutting up, with my carcass in such a den as this. And besides, you came here now to let folks out; so the sooner you set about it, the better.'

Mr. Richard was full of wrath, but he knew whom he had to deal with; and seeing likewise that Billy Bloodgood was looking at him very earnestly, and pointing towards Mr. Oakum at the other end of the room, he had no alternative; so called aloud in a very quick manner,

'Mr. Oakum, you are at liberty, you are released; you can go.'

Sam jumped up, and caught hold of his father:

'Oh, father! come, come, father, quick!' And he fairly pulled his father along; who, amazed at the suddenness of his delivery, and weak with the agitation his mind had endured, almost staggered as he followed Sam to the door.

'Come along, man, come along; don't stay a minute longer.' And old Mr. Cutter hobbled out, partly leaning on Mr. Oakum, and partly pulling him down the stairs, and out of doors.

To describe all Mr. Oakum's feelings, when he found himself at liberty, and learned that a full settlement of his account had been made, and that it had dwindled down, under the scrutinizing eye of Billy Bloodgood, to the sum of twenty dollars, and that he could pay this amount back at his own convenience; or to describe the joy which danced in the heart of Sam when he saw his father once out of that place, and Uncle Sam Cutter shaking him with both hands; and Mr. Bloodgood nodding his head, and smiling, and running round--it would be vain to attempt.

It was a bright spot in Sam's life, and it was a good day for more hearts than one; for it was the means of winning into the little circle of working boys the two sons of old Mr. Cutter: they became diligent from that day forward, and were constant in aiding their father, either in the garden, the shop, or the field.