University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
LIFE IN JAIL — A SURPRISE.

We left Clapham reposing with the peace of good
resolutions. They gained force from the steadying
effect of sleep. The next morning Hunt and
Slocum renewed their solicitations. They did not care
for him, or his companionship; but they coveted the two
or three dollars which he had earned in the ring trade,
and they believed he was already in their toils. Clapham
returned a civil but firm refusal to their soft
words, and they desisted, Slocum saying to Hunt,
“Never mind now; a week or two more will limber
him. Nothing like jail life to take vartu starch out
of folks.”

It was just after this last resistance, and Clapham

secretly felt that it was a reward for it, that he espied,
among the rubbish swept into a corner of the room,
the fragments of a pamphlet giving an account of the
disasters and wreck of the ship Commerce, on her return
from New Spain to the port of New York.
Clapham had had one winter's schooling, during one
of his father's long absences from home, and he had
then learned to read and spell words of two syllables.
By an hour's effort, he made out the title. It struck
on his memory, and recalled many adventures he had
heard his father relate of a certain ship Commerce in
which he had been wrecked when a child. Here,
Clapham thought, was a chance of learning to read, if
he would work hard; and, stimulated by his curiosity
to ascertain if the pamphlet really contained the stories
recounted by his father, he set to the task. The print
was small and blurred, and, in many places, rendered
quite illegible by dirt-stains. The first two pages were
merely prefatory, and filled with commercial and nautical
terms, which greatly increased Clapham's difficulty.
He persevered, however, and in one week he read
these two pages. And, though many a time his head
ached, and his eyes were misty, it was by far the
shortest and pleasantest week he had passed since
Deleau left the jail. The next week, he went on
better; and now he came to the incidents, in a different
form, of which his father had retained and related his
indistinct impressions. The name of Felix Hale,
second mate, frequently recurred. His daring in various
exploits was noted; his fair dealing and generosity
to the crew were dwelt on; and the particulars of
his death, which occurred during a contest with a
privateersman, in defending a woman, the only passenger
in the ship, were minutely given. The account of
him concluded as follows: “Thus, by a fatal stab in
the back, we lost the best man in the ship — honest
to his last farthing; true to his last word; brave as
Julius Cæsar; and tender-hearted as a woman. He had
married in New Spain, and his wife died there, leaving
a son, whom he was bringing to New York. When
the Commerce was wrecked, and we escaped by night,
in the long-boat, this little chap was asleep below with
old Norman Dunn, who had adopted him, and given
him his name. The boat was already overloaded, and,
as the man was old, and always drunk when ashore,
and the boy would be better off in Abraham's bosom,
all hands agreed not to wake them. The Commerce
was never heard of after.”

Clapham spelt through these last sentences, his
heart throbbing as if it would leap from his bosom.
He recalled distinctly Norman's graphic description of
awaking one morning, and finding himself alone on the
wreck of the vessel with his father, (the old sailor who
adopted him,) and his saying that, after a few days' heaving
about, they were taken off and carried to England.
He seemed to have forgotten his real father, with whom
he had had brief intercourse. The rough old sailor took
him from port to port, and finally, dying at sea, the
boy was sent to a small seaport on Long Island Sound,
in Connecticut. There, at the age of eleven years, a
solitary and dropped link from the chain of humanity,
he was found by the overseers of the poor, and sent
to school. He could not bear its restraints, and ran
away into the interior; and from that time he led a
roving and lawless life.

To return to Clapham. He was assured that this

Felix Hale was his grandfather; that there was good
blood in his veins; that his grandfather was a true
and honest man, honored and loved. It was a proud
and happy day for the poor boy, and many and many
a time he said over to himself, “Felix Hale's blood
is in my veins. I know it is. I always did hate to
lie and steal, like poison.”

Again and again he read over the fragmentary
leaves. He had them every word by heart. After
that, the reading naturally became tiresome. Again he
besieged Plum to give him something to do, and again
was surlily repulsed. Again he besought a book of
the jailer, and was again denied. Two weeks more of
idleness passed away. His health suffered. The room,
never ventilated, was noisome. His head continually
ached, or had a heavy, confused feeling, worse than
pain.

Slocum and Hunt never forgot Clapham's money.
Their appetite for rum and tobacco reminded them of
it; and one unhappy day for Clapham, when he was
looking paler and more haggard than usual, his eyes
half closed, and his neglected leaves lying beside him,

Slocum called to him, “Come, Clap, draw up, and look
on; there's no harm in that, my man. We'll be
frindly, the same as if you'd never snubbed us.”

“I may as well!” thought Clapham; “I shall die
lying here, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, nothing to
do. I have tried my best.” He had tried manfully;
but no one should ever cease trying. He drew near
to them. It was this first movement that led to the
evil that followed. “Resist the devil and he will flee
from you.” But resist to the end. Clapham looked
over that game, and another, and another. He began,
unconsciously, to feel an interest, and, as soon as he
perfectly comprehended the game, to hope that Hunt,
whom he disliked less than Slocum, would win. There
was usually a small bet pending. The pies, nuts,
tobacco, and cakes, received from their outside friends,
supplied the means of making them.

The second day, he answered to their invitation
more promptly. “I go not harm yesterday,” he thought,
“and why should I to-day? It does make the time
pass.”

“You are a smart lad, Clap,” said Slocum, after

Clapham had been looking on an hour or two. “I'll
bet you, Hunt, he could play a game now, without a miss.”

“He play! Your granny, as well,” replied Hunt,
with an air of great contempt.

“Well, I'll bet on him. Try, just once, Clap.”

Clapham, provoked by Hunt doubting his capacity,
took the cards.

“What's the use of betting with me?” said Hunt;
“I've got nothing, and less. What do you say, Clap,
for our side. Will you venture six cents against Slo's
six apples? You've the chink, you know. Come, don't
hold back, don't be tight. We are all, but you, as
poor as church mice. Well, if you are so close, twelve
apples to your six cents.”

“I don't care for the six cents,” said Clapham.
He hesitated from a foolish dread of their redicule,
if he told them he did not like to bet. He had sense
enough to fear that betting would draw him in to play
more with them. “But never mind; it is but once,”
he thought; “just to see if I can play without a miss;
and I don't want them to think me mean.” He took
the cards.

Ah, Clapham, if you had but thought then, “The
thing is to do right, and then it matters not what others
say or think.” They had caught him. Clapham
took the cards; they exchanged winks, and he proceeded
to give his whole mind to the game. He
played it right, and won it, and won the apples into
the bargain. He felt the pleasure of excitement. It
was a new world to him. No more consciousness of
headache; no more drowsiness, nor dulness. He continued
playing till it was so dark he could not see a
spot on the cards. Slocum and Hunt were good-natured
all day. After they had instructed Clapham
in “All Fours,” they taught him “Loo;” and Clapham
dreamed all night of “Flusher,” and “Blaser,” of
“Great Loo” and “Little Loo;” and when he arose in
the morning, he was as eager to go to the cards as
they were to have him.

Betting was now a regular thing with every game.
Clapham had resolved not to stake more than six cents
at a time. That, he thought, was a small risk; and,
as they won his money, they staked cash against cash.
Clapham lost oftener than he won; but he was not

aware how much the luck run against him, till towards
the close of the week, when, on counting over his
money, he found but fifty cents remaining.

He had scarcely won a game that day. A suspicion
of foul play dawned upon him. He began to
realize that gaming was a bad business for him, and,
like many older gamblers, he resolved that, as soon as
he had won back his money, or detected the fraud he
suspected, he would give up playing. “I must, at any
rate,” he said to himself, “hold on till I find out if
they cheat me.” They had gone on cheating so successfully
that they were not on their guard. Game
followed game, and on each Clapham lost his sixpence.
He became almost sure that he perceived
where the fraud was. His heart beat so that he was
afraid they would perceive it; but he kept himself
apparently cool till he was certain, and then, striking
Slocum's cards out of his hands, he exclaimed, “It's no
play. You've cheated in the deal. I saw you!”

“You lie!” cried Slocum.

“Let him lie!” said Hunt. “Here is his last sixpence.
We've wound him up.”

“You've cheated me out of my money, and I'll
get it again,” said Clapham, irritated by his losses,
by their cheating, and still more by their triumph.

“Take that,” said Slocum, spitting on him; “that's
all you'll get again.” Clapham sprang to his feet,
and struck Slocum a blow in the face that made the
blood spout from his nose. Enraged, he flew at
Clapham. Clapham did not give an inch, and, striking
blow after blow, they came to the floor together.
There was a general uproar in the room. The cardtable
was overthrown; a jug of rum was overturned
and spilled; the cards were scattered; pennies and
apples rolled over the filthy floor. One man cried
out that it was not fair play. Man against boy.
Hunt declared no one should interfere; and such was
the hubbub that no one was conscious that the door
was opened, and that the jailer entered, followed by a
young man, till the visitor said, in a thrilling voice,
“Clapham Dunn!” and Clapham sprang from Slocum
to his feet. His flushed face turned deadly pale, and,
staggering to the wall, he groaned out, “O Harry
Davis!”

His eye met Harry's. He turned away his face,
and leaned against the iron bars of the window.
Harry did not see the hot tears that streamed over his
cheeks. He saw nothing but the signs of his degradation
and ruin. His long, dark, curling hair was a
snarled mass, gray with lint and dust; his begrimed
skin had that sallow, dingy, parchment hue infallibly
contracted in a neglected prison. His clothes, none
of the best when he left his wretched home, had
not been since changed, and were now black, greasy,
stiff, and ragged at all points. The mountain friend,
the boy of Rhigi's lovely woods, with his shining curls
and ruddy cheeks, and voice ringing out clear as the
birds that sang around him, the favorite of “little
Lucy,” passed, for one moment, in vision before Harry.
His eye ran over the disgusting apartment; his head
turned, and he became sick and faint. It was partly
the fetid air of the room, but more the shock of
his disappointment. He turned back into the passage,
and the jailer relocked the door. The sound struck
like a sentence of final judgment on Clapham's ear,
and he fell senseless on the floor.