University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

About twelve o'clock the next day, as Bradshaw
was seated in his office, he heard a voice down
stairs, exclaiming, “Bradshaw, where are ye,
man?”

“Here, Nancy; walk up.”

“Yer a pretty attorney and counsellor at law,
to have yer office up into a third story. Do ye
think, man, that the people will be pilgrimating up
to ye? Have ye got already to be a counsellor of
such importance?”

“No, Nancy, not exactly; I am not a counsellor
at all, yet.”

“Not a counsellor! What do ye mean? Ye have
paid me my fee—a five dollar bill, instead of a
one—Scrags, that lump of meanness, refused that
—and generous ye were. Ha'n't ye admitted yet?
Ye are funning. I have heard ye often plead.”

“Why, not to the civil court yet, Mrs. Mulvaney;
only to the criminal; and I was admitted
there to defend a friend of mine. I have no great
anxicty to begin the practice, until I know more
about it. I mean the civil practice.”

“Ye speak like a wise man, for a young one:
'Taint always the horse that's first entered that
wins the race.”

“You are right, Mrs. Mulvany.”

“Don't Mrs. Mulvany me, now, Bradshaw;
call me Nancy. Nancy, I may say, is my born
name; for I've had it all my born days. Mrs. Mulvany
is well enough with folks that don't know
me. Not that I'm ashamed of Josey's name. It
would make any lone woman like me respectable.
But Nancy my first husband always called me,
and Nancy I like folks to call me; for sometimes a
voice seems like his, and it puts me in mind of
times long gone, when I was young, and my name
sounded to me, and most when Richard called it,
like a bird's note in spring time.”

“Nancy, you are sentimental this morning.”

“Sentimental! if ye mean, by that, high-flying
notions that don't turn out true, it's wrong to nuss
them. They come across all of us sometimes. Bradshaw,
do ye know the girl, Jane Durham?”

Bradshaw smiled at the penetrating glance
Nancy cast on him, and said, “I saw her last
night.”

“Did you never see her before last night?”

“Not that I remember of, yet it seems to me
that I have; but Nancy, must I undergo a cross
examination?”

“Not if it will criminate yerself, Bradshaw, as
ye lawyers say; but the poor girl is in a woful
trouble, and she thinks that ye can help her out.
She was a kind of crazy like this morn—and she
called on yer name, but not like a poor thing in
histeriky fits, calls on a man that has misused
and deceived her. I ha'n't felt for a human cretur
so much for manys the day. She says that ye can

help her out of her trouble, and she wants to see
ye. Will ye go?”

“What's the matter with her, Nancy?”

“What's the matter!—why, the poor thing's accused
of murder, outright murder, and Johnson
the watchman—the wretch!—to treat a woman
so—dragged her from her bed early this morn before
Squire Bailley, and the Squire committed her
to prison. I met them as I was going to market
to get some of the best fruit,—ye know if a body
don't go early, they can't get the best—and he was
dragging her on in a manner, that made me berate
him till he behaved more decenter. And, as I
knowed the poor girl, apples and every thing jest
went clean out o' my head, and I went with her.
She told the magistrate that ye could tell where
she was in the night? Johnson don't like ye—does
he?”

“I believe not,” replied Bradshaw.

“I jist saw as much, for he treated her worse
when she spoke of ye, and he wanted to drag her
all the way over to the jail. But I opened on
him—and made him get a back—and I paid for it
myself, and went with the poor thing to the jail.
I wanted to get the jailer, old Presley to do well
by her, and he would and wanted to, but Johnson
spoke so by her, that he locked her up in the common
room. Johnson abused her for every thing.”

The dark spot gathered on Bradshaw's brow till
it lowered with the fiercest passion, which Nancy
observing, remarked—

“Bradshaw, if the poor thing is any thing to ye,

if ye've ta'en her from Glassman and she's yer
mistress, as ye call it, yer bound to do by her.”

Bradshaw here hastily explained to Nancy all
he knew of the girl, and of the events of the previous
night, and asked—“What of her and Glassman?”

“Why, as ye know Glassman so well, Bradshaw,
being as yer so often with him, I thought ye knew
his character, but may be he did not like to tell a
young man, and a man kind and smooth-spoken,
and looking like ye, of such things. I bethought me,
when the girl spoke of ye, how ye stood. And as
I used to call to see her, and sell her apples, and
she never spoke of ye, I did not know what to
make of it—but when the heart's wrung, it says
what at other times it hides. Well, it's jest so—is
it? Ye must do yer best for her, Bradshaw.”

“Assuredly I will, Nancy; but who is she accused
of murdering?—who is she?—where is Glassman?”

“Why, she is jest accused of murdering—a man
in—lane last night, I couldn't gather much of the
case afore the magistrate, only I know that Johnson
swore hard agin her.”

“Did he swear that he saw the man stabbed by
her?”

“Yes! yes! he swore every thing.”

“Who is she, Nancy?”

“Why, she jist lives in the little brick above
Glassman's, in the lane. She is with Glassman.
She never told any thing about herself—and she
has such a way, that I never asked her. Though
she be `a mother, an' no wife,' as the ballad sings,
yet, I tell ye, there's many a wife that's worse.

Glassman's gone somewhere, on some spree—God
only knows where. I expect the poor thing's been
inveigled to Dean's, by some way or other that she
didn't dream of. I've no trust in Johnson, and I
told him so, plump down. I didn't like the way he
acted, no how. But, Bradshaw, ye must go and
see the poor thing. It ain't best for a young man
to go on these missions—but ye'd best go. Ye was
with her last night, and I promised, faithfully, to
send ye.”

“I'll go, at once,” said Bradshaw. “This is
pretty much of a mission for a young man like me,
as you say, Nancy. The girl is certainly beautiful,
and the impression haunts my mind that I have
seen her somewhere. Come, Nancy, suppose you
walk over.”

“No, I'd best not, honey; it's pretty much of a
walk, and ye'd best see her alone. She'll speak
more freely to ye. I'll go myself, this afternoon.
Poor thing! her trouble's sad to see and hear.”

The jail was a considerable distance off, in the
outskirts of the city. A wall surrounded it, making
a large enclosure. In the jail lived the jailer, with
his family, consisting of a wife and three or four
children: one of them a grown girl, by a former
marriage, named Lucy. Bradshaw knew the jailer,
Job Presley, very well. Job, considering his situation,
which he had held for many years, was a very
kind-hearted fellow. He valued himself greatly on
his knowledge of “human natur,” as he pronounced
it, and was, also, in his own opinion, a great politician,
and acute in the law. Bradshaw understood
him exactly; and while most persons thought old

Job rough and unfeeling, the fit representative of his
profession, in all ages, (as, in fact, he seemed to
them,) Bradshaw appreciated him; and, as he loved
to study character, he would often stop at the jail
to see the prisoners, his clients, and to have a talk
with Job, and draw him out. Bradshaw also delighted
to chat with his daughter Lucy, whose guilelessness
and simplicity, he said, reminded him of
the flower blooming in the very shade of the Upas.
Lucy had seen and heard enough of vice to know
well of it; but it affected her heart no more than
would the perusal of the Koran affect the Christian,
who had already studied, understood, and been
profoundly penetrated by the truths of his Bible.
Job's apartments were in one corner of the jail,
and were kept as neat, by his tidy little wife, as if
they were rooms in a palace. She was a talkative
woman,—as what woman is not?—and somewhat
self-willed; but she was very kind to her step-daughter,
Lucy, and so they got on very well. Job was a
forbidding-looking man at first sight, and always so
to one who was not an observer. He was quite
neat in his dress, for a jailer—for, though his
clothing was coarse, and he wore a great jacket,
which almost covered his hips, into the pockets of
which he generally thrust his hands, yet he kept
his apparel scrupulously brushed. He was standing
on the steps of the jail—not at the entrance to
his own rooms, but to the prison—looking, through
the grated gate in the wall, out upon the few passers-by,
in the outskirts of the city. The wall was
as high as the second story of the jail, and the steps
on which Job stood were not fifteen feet from the
gate, and directly opposite to it. As soon as Bradshaw
came up to the gate, they saw each other.

“Job,” said Bradshaw; “how are you? Will you
let me in?”

“Certainly, Squire, and out whenever you choose,
and that's what I can't say to any one in these
walls, except to old Job Presley himself.” So speaking,
he unlocked the little gate, that was imbodied
in the more ponderous one, and let Bradshaw in.
Bradshaw shook him cordially by the hand, and
Job proceeded, with his usual caution, to turn the
key.

“Job, what news have you to-day?” asked
Bradshaw. “There's rather a stir to-day, sir?—
There was a murder committed at Dean's, last
night, or somewhere about them lanes, and we've
got a pretty girl, a very pretty girl here, on the
charge, that don't seem used to these things. I'm
glad you've come: she said, she wanted to see you.
I expect it's a hard case. Johnson kind of persuaded
me she was a common thing, but I didn't believe
it, at the time. However, as he seemed to insist
upon it so, I thought I'd best be safe, and lock her
up with the rest. I asked Johnson if she was any
thing to you, and he said not. I never saw her before.
I know, from human natur, that she's not
used to these things.”

“By Jove! you're right, Job; as far as I can
gather from what I have heard, and know of her.
I'll apprenticeship myself to you some of these
days, to learn character.”

“Why, Mr. Bradshaw,” said Job, self-complacently;
“I've seen all sorts of characters in my

day. And I've studied them from a jail-bird to a
Governor; but I've seen the most of the worst kind,
and it's my candid opinion of the best kind that
they're not much to be trusted.”

“Job, I believe you're right. Come, my good
fellow, and let me see the girl. What kind of a
girl is she, Job?”

“Why, sir, as I may say, one of the prettiest-looking
girls I ever saw. My daughter Lucy thought
well of her, and so did my wife; they're acute,
quite acute, in understanding woman character.”

They now entered the jail. It had a great
hall through it, from which a flight of steps ascended
to the upper stories. The thick oak floor,
the ponderous iron gratings and bars, the handcuffs
and chains against the walls, all reminded one
forcibly of the locality. On either side of the hall,
strong doors led to the apartments of the prisoners.
Two doors secured each entrance; one was a grated
door, through which those of the prisoners who were
suffered to come out in the passage from their
wards or cells—which were built on each side of it—
could speak with the jailer, or such of their friends
as were permitted to see them. There were different
cells for solitary confinement, and well furnished
rooms for the gentleman debtor who preferred
a suite of apartments, and was able to pay
for them. Below was the dungeon deep for the irreclaimable
malefactor. Job himself led the way
to the room in which Jane Durham was confined.
As the keys turned in the locks of the passage door,
a loud laugh was heard from a room at the other
end of the passage. Job and Bradshaw entered the

passage, and the careful jailer locked the door after
him. When they reached the door of the apartment
in which the females were confined, four or
five squalid, haggard faces, some still bearing the
traces of beauty, appeared at the grate. They
gazed at Bradshaw intently, and one of them turned
quickly round, and in a tone that Bradshaw overheard,
said, “Old Moll, here comes Job with her
chap, and he's a gentleman—you'd better mind.”

“Let 'em come,” replied a voice within. “Old
Moll has had her day, too, and now she goes in for
the plunder.”

Bradshaw and the jailer entered. There was a
fire in a stove in the middle of the room; the air was
confined and hot, and of such a noxious and unwholesome
nature, that it seemed to have contagion
in its very breath.

“What have you got your stove so hot for?”
exclaimed Job. “Do you want to burn out all
your wood in the morning? What do you put your
meat in the stove, and leave it there, for? You'll
breed a fever!”

While Job was speaking, Bradshaw looked round.
A woman, whom, at a glance, he recognised to be
the one, who, on the previous evening, sprang from
the bed at Jane Durham, when he rescued her
from Adams, and who was called old Moll, was hastily
endeavouring to conceal something under her
mattress. On a mattress, beside Moll's, leaning on
her arm, with haggard look, and deshevelled hair,
stripped of her shawl, bonnet, and gown, and endeavouring
to cover her neck and shoulders, with
a miserable, dirty and torn blanket, was Jane Durham.

Her look of utter destitution and wo struck
even old Job forcibly, accustomed as he was to such
scenes.

“Who did that? Who stripped this young woman?”
asked he, in a loud imperative voice, and
and with an angry look, that made even old Moll
start. “The one that did it's got to be locked up
by herself, I can tell you that.” “O! no matter, sir,
said Jane Durham;” she is welcome to it all—let
her stay here, sir, and keep all—put me for God
sake in the cell, and not her. Oh, Mr. Bradshaw!
I'm undone—a miserable forlorn and destitute
wretch. I sent for you, sir; but I've no claims on
you—I've no means. You risked your life for me
last night, and knew me not. 'Twas kind in you
—the great God will reward you. I'm innocent—
I'm innocent of this charge! As sure as there is a
holy Providence above us, I am innocent of this
charge—but I am, indeed, a miserable wretch.”
She fell upon the bed, and hid her head in the
blanket. A big tear stood on the iron cheek of old
Job, Bradshaw spoke not—he folded his arms,
while indignation seemed to predominate in his
feelings against Johnson first, and then against the
jailer for putting the girl in such a room. But a
moment's reflection curbed his anger against Job;
and when he saw the tear upon his cheek, he forgot
it. Bradshaw knew that the only way to get
any favours for the poor girl was to manage Job;
and he left his office with the determination to do
so.

“Job,” said Bradshaw, “that woman Moll has
the girl's clothes hid in her bed, there.”

“So she has,” said Job. “Mr. Bradshaw, you've
a quick eye, sir,” and he advanced to Moll's bed, to
take the clothes.

Moll, with a face of unblushing effrontery, exclaimed,
“They're mine! they're mine!—the hussy
stole them from me last night; and—”

“You lie!” said Job; and seizing her, led her out
of the room to a cell. She made no resistance, as
she knew it was of no use. When Job left the
room with old Moll in charge, instinctively and
without reflection, he locked the door after him.

“We've got a man among us what'll happen?”
said one of the wretches, with a discordant laugh.
The others said nothing, but looked silently at
Bradshaw, doubtless with a wish to discover the
connexion existing between him and the girl.

“Here, Miss Durham,” said he, lifting her shawl
and gown from the bed of old Moll, and handing
them to her, “arrange your dress; don't be alarmed,
you shall be removed from here.”

Bradshaw spoke in a soothing tone, and as he
laid the shawl and gown on the foot of the bed, he
turned away that he might not observe her. The
women, wretches as they were, were struck with
his delicacy, and an involuntary respect seized
them.

Old Moll, who had been taken up by the watchman,
in the night, while they were in search of
Adams, as soon as Jane Durham was locked up
with them, took from her her bonnet, shawl, and
frock, and began abusing her in the most horrid
language, telling the women around, that Jane
Durham had come to her house, raised a fuss, and

made off with a fellow, after having stolen her
dresses and killed one of her friends. Moll made
Jane Durham bring her bed, and place it beside her
own, and, after taking Jane's bonnet, she amused
herself with reviling and tormenting her, much to
the gratification of most of the inmates of the room,
who took a hellish delight in witnessing the distress
of one so young and beautiful, enjoying the anticipation
that she would soon be what they were. One
or two would have taken the poor girl's part, but
for their fear of old Moll—the hag, who was a notorious
character, mocking them, if they even looked
commiseration, or refused to join in reviling and
taunting their prey. We cannot rehearse the
scene.

Job now returned, opened the door, and, entering
the room, said, “Squire, you must pardon
me; I am so much in the way of locking the door
after me, that I forgot you were in.”

“It's no matter, Job; I wished to remain.” And
while Jane Durham was hurrying on her dress and
looking for her comb, to keep her hair from her
face, Bradshaw recounted to Job the events of the
previous evening, and all that he knew of her, with
regard to Glassman, remarking, “Glassman is away,
I don't know where. I shall attend to her case,
if he does not; and, Job, you must move her out of
this place.”

“Yes, that must be done, sir: I hate to lock her
up in one of these cells, and I don't know where to
put her.”

“Job,” said Bradshaw, “you see the girl is young
and beautiful, and your knowledge of the world

correctly told you at first, that she was not used
to these things. She's evidently modest, and any
man's daughter may be misled by a man like Glassman.”

“Yes, Squire, you're right,” said Job. “I
shouldn't ask Mr. Glassman to my house, humble
if it be. I have full confidence in Lucy, Squire,—
but, Mr. Bradshaw, throw temptation in nobody's
way. Glassman's a bit of a rascal, I suspect, if he
is a great lawyer. But what shall we do with
this poor girl?”

“Job, there's no danger of her escaping. Haven't
you a room any where, that you could put her in?
I'll pay whatever it may cost. Have you no room
in your part of the house that would do?”

“Why, yes,” said Job, “I've got rooms in my
part of the house, as you say—but it's a movement
I never made before, and I've been jailer here six
years—and then there's my family—my wife.”

“Oh! I don't think your wife will object to it,
Job.”

“Mr. Bradshaw,” said Job, quickly, “I am master
in my own house; but still the women have
their rights. The girl spoke to my wife and Lucy,
and they wanted me to put her somewhere else,
and not lock her up here in the common room, but
Johnson over-persuaded me. It ain't that I think
the girl will hurt my family, but I don't know who
she is exactly; and the most knowing men may be
mistaken in human natur.”

“That's true, Job; but, I hardly think you are
mistaken in this case?”

“Well, Squire, I don't think I am. Let's take

the poor girl out into my office, and I'll see my
wife and Lucy, and see what can be done.”

The women looked on in amazement, to see old
Job show so much feeling. The three left the
room. Job, as usual, locked the door, and tried it
with great care, and then led the way to his office,
where he and Bradshaw left the girl, and proceeded
to the part of the jail in which his family
were. Jane Durham felt a relief, that almost
made her cheerful; she had overheard most of the
conversation between Job and Bradshaw; she felt
that they took an interest in her, and Bradshaw's
kind attention, and his service to her the previous
evening, led her to believe that she was not altogether
friendless. Bradshaw and Job had scarcely
proceeded ten steps, when Job observed,—master,
though he boasted himself in his own family,—
“Mr. Bradshaw, I wish you would go on and speak
to my wife and Lucy about this poor girl. Women
have their rights, you know, Mr. Bradshaw?
You can explain all of it, to put their minds to rest,
as to what she is, and I'll go and bring her along;
she has a mighty pleading look, and then, she's
monstrous pretty.”

“Well,” thought Bradshaw, “this is speedier done
than I thought it would be. No bail allowed on a
charge of murder? I don't believe she has committed
any murder. There's something wrong in
Johnson—I'll come across him like a flash of lightning,
some of these days, the scoundrel. Better
get the girl in Job's family, if I can, than have to
manage with Bailley, the magistrate, or have a sitting
of the judges on a question of bail. Besides,

what bail could she get? there's no bail in murder.
If I could manage it, I would have to be bail myself—couldn't
be—I've not the property. Besides,
if the girl is kept here, and where Job's family can,
occasionally, see her, it will have a good effect
upon her. I must manage to see Glassman.—
There's one thing certain, there'll be all sorts of
tales flying all over town about me. Well, let
them fly. The girl is most beautiful. The mental
agony that she has suffered! There is a sin
registered against her betrayer, deep as the mark
upon the brow of Cain! Can he be Glassman?”
With these and similar reflections, passing like
lighting through his mind, much more rapidly
than we have recounted them, Bradshaw entered
the apartments of Job's family.

“Miss Lucy, my jaileress of hearts, how do you
do to-day? Where is your mother, and how is
she?”

“O! Mr. Bradshaw, is that you, sir? Walk in,”
exclaimed Lucy, ceasing her occupation of rocking
the cradle, in which she appeared mechanically
engaged, with her knitting, untouched in her lap.
“Mother's well, she's gone up stairs a minute.”

“Lucy, what were you thinking about, so earnestly?”

“About a poor girl, sir; who was brought in to-day,
accused of murder; my heavens! O! she is
so beautiful, sir, and so sorrowful. I don't believe
she is any more guilty, than that sleeping baby.
I never felt so bad before, for any body. Daddy
didn't want to put her among the other people—
but Johnson, the watchman, insisted it was best.

The poor thing, sir, said she knew you.” And
Lucy gazed earnestly at Bradshaw.

The wife of the jailer, at this moment, entered
the room.

“Good morning, Mr. Bradshaw,” said she; “I
thought I knew your voice. Lucy was telling
you about the girl this morning. She said she
knew you; (a look, keener than Lucy's, accompanied
this remark of the worthy Mrs. Presley.)
She's very pretty, and, indeed, I am sorry for
her.”

Here Bradshaw recounted to the jailer's wife
and daughter, in his eloquent and powerful manner,
the whole scene of the night; and, also, the
situation of Jane Durham in the jail. He told
Mrs. Presley that her husband wanted to put her
in one of the rooms of their establishment; (here
the jailer's wife bridled.) “But,” continued
Bradshaw, “your husband and myself thought I
had better tell you the circumstances, and ask
your advice, and how you felt on the subject.”

“Yes,” observed Mrs. Presley, with a smile;
“I thought she was wronged when I first saw
her.”

“So your husband told me, madam,” remarked
Bradshaw. “He said that you saw instantly she
was a different being from those he locked up.
He observed, that women understood women
much better than men.”

“You may well say that, Mr. Bradshaw. Let
me see, there is the room just beside us, that opens
into this; we can lock the door that opens into the
yard, and she can have that—there's a bed and

chairs in it; not so good as she has been used to,
may be—but people can't always choose. She
can stay there a spell, and if we like her, and
there is no objection made, she can put what furniture
in it she wants, if she turns out what we
think her.”

After paying a compliment to their kind feelings,
which Mrs. Presley received, consciously,
and Lucy, blushingly, Bradshaw left them, to find
Job and Jane Durham.

As Bradshaw approached the jailer's room, he
heard old Job, in a high key, speaking to some one,
who, by the voice, he recognised, instantly, to be
the lawyer who refused to pay Nancy her fee.

“I tell you what it is, Mr. Scrags,” said Job,
“the thing can't be done, sir. The man is in for
counterfeiting, Mr. Scrags, and he's been in before
for robbery—he's a great jail-bird; and it's
against human natur, standing as I do, jailer of
this establishment, to take the irons off of that
man, much less to give him the freedom of the
passage without his irons, and no report from the
doctor that he's sick, and no word —”

“I'll get you word from the sheriff, and be
d—d to your human natur, as you call it,” said
Scrags, angrily.

“Well, Mr. Scrags,” replied the jailer, “you
may damn human natur just as much as you
choose, it's all one to me; though a man may just
say, that if human natur's damned, the whole lot
of us is gone, that's all. But, Mr. Scrags, when
the order from the sheriff comes, the order is to

be thought on. By an act of the session of the
general assembly before last, I believe it's in
the eighth volume of the statutes,—I know it's
in the pamphlet of rules for the government
of the jail,—it is enacted and provided, that
there shall be trustees appinted to look into the
affairs of the jail—and they must look into the
affairs of the sheriff, too, with respect to the jail.
And—”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Scrags, half in jest and
half in anger. “Job, you had better turn lawyer
at once, and commence business. I have no doubt
that the whole bar will take you in at consultation,
and every litigant will employ you. Ha! ha!—
Job Presley, Esq., attorney at law. Ha! ha!—
good!”

“They might employ a worse man, Mr. Scrags,
and not go far,” exclaimed the offended Job.

“I have no doubt of it, Job,” said Scrags.
“From your intimacy with criminals you've
learned the criminal law, and, with rascally debtors,
the civil law—hey!”

“My manners, sir,” said Job, “if you allude
to that, (for with all Job's boasted knowledge of
the law, he did not understand the distinction between
civil and criminal law,) are just what God
gave me, and never put on to serve a purpose;
and, as for my criminal information, I got that
from the lawyers who come here to get tender
mercies showed to their clients—get their legirons
off—so that they may give leg-bail to Job
Presley some dark night. Then I shall be in the

right trim for studying the law, which you advise,
Mr. Scrags; as my discharge, as jailer, would
leave me nothing to do.”

Scrags felt that he was wrong. He was on the
eve of damning old Job for a scoundrel, notwithstanding;
but he reflected that he might finesse
with the jailer some other time,—so he forced a
laugh, and departed.

Mean while, Bradshaw had entered Job's office,
where Jane Durham sat in the corner, with
her head bowed down, and her veil drawn over
her face. He was about speaking to her, when
Job, who had stepped out during his altercation
with Scrags, returned. Wiping the perspiration
from his forehead, Job remarked—

“That Scrags needn't think to circumvent me.
He can't do it. Take the irons off of that jail
breaking fellow, hey! and give him the liberty
of the passage! He'd be off before you could
say Jack Robinson; but not before Mr. Scrags
had been paid for advising me to take the irons
off of him.”

“Why, Job,” said Bradshaw, “you came out
upon him in style.”

“Now, didn't I, Squire? When a man pretends
to be a gentleman, why, says I, let him be
a gentleman; and when he's a rogue, let him be
a rogue. Kitely that died,—the mail robber,—
you didn't know him, Mr. Bradshaw, did you?”

“Yes—I believe I did,” replied Bradshaw; “a
good-looking fellow that died here a year ago.”

“The very same,” replied Job. “He died of a

putrid fever; and one night, when he was very bad,
I watched with him. It was the morning before he
died: a man, you know, sometimes seems to get better
just afore he dies. Well, I somehow liked him,
and I set up with him. It was about midnight. I didn't
hear a single chain more in the whole jail. Kitely
and I got to talking confidential. He told me he
did not think he would live; and, as I'd done a favour
to him, he'd tell me something. About a week
before he was taken sick, I had taken the irons all
off of him, because Scrags asked it, and he complained.
What do you think,—it's as true as you
set there, Mr. Bradshaw,—Kitely told me that he
had given Scrags one thousand dollars to get the
irons taken off of him, and to furnish him with a
file, and implements to get out. He told me just
to move his bed a little, and I could see the hole
he had dug, before he got sick. Sure enough, I
moved the bed, with him on it, and there was the
hole. Laying on the wet earth, that he had
crammed in his bed, made him sick. I turned to
ask him more questions, when he fumbled at his
bed head a minute, and brought out a purse. `I
saved this from him,' said he, in a trembling voice,
`he got all but this—he was a traitor—he brought
a letter into me from a friend—he didn't know what
was in it.' Here poor Kitely,” said Job, “had to
lay back and gasp for breath: he raised himself
upon his arm and went on—`He didn't know what
was in it. The letter told me that if I escaped,
Scrags had got my friend to promise that he would
receive me and secrete me; and when the reward
was offered for my apprehension, he was to betray
me, and Scrags and him was to share the reward.
I sent for Scrags, yesterday, hoping that he would
come to see me. If he had, and there had been
strength enough in me, I'd stabbed him to the heart.'
Them was his very words, Mr. Bradshaw—his very
words; and he stretched out his hand, with the
purse in it, and he said—`Yes, Job, I've saved this
from him,—take it, Job, and give it to your daughter
Lucy, the day she gets married, or any day you
like. There's no ill luck in it, Job—I came honestly
by it, as I am a dying man. Give it to your
daughter Lucy, Job—she'll save this jail, as long as
she lives in it, from God's curse. Give it to her—
I wish it was a million. I heard her persuading
you to move me from here, when I was first taken;
but I would not be moved, because I'd be discovered.
She has sent me every thing to tempt a
sick man's palate; and, day by day, she asks me,
through my window there, that looks out into the
yard, how I am, with a voice that sounds like an
angel's.' Yes,” said Job, with deep emotion, “his
very words; and he put the puss into my hand, and
pressed it, and fell back dead—cold and clammy as
the clay under him. But, what was I talking
about?” continued Job, rubbing his hand through
his hair. “Mr. Bradshaw, did you speak to my
wife and Lucy consarning this young woman?”

“Yes,” said Bradshaw. “Your wife, Job, likes
your idea, and so does Lucy. Miss Durham,” said
Bradshaw, addressing her, “I will call and see you
this afternoon, when you are more self-possessed.
Don't be alarmed: Job will treat you kindly. Make
up your mind how much you can tell me of your

case. Think over the whole case. Here's Mrs.
Presley and Lucy. Good bye.”

Jane Durham burst into tears as Bradshaw departed.
Lucy and her mother led her to their
rooms. Old Job went with Bradshaw to the gate,
to let him out.

“Mr. Bradshaw,” said Job, “don't tell to any one
the case ofpoor Scrags and Kitely, that I told
you. I've never told it to mortal man before. It's
no use, you know—Scrag's word would be taken
before mine; and then, if it was not, who would
believe Kitely? Scrags would say. I've felt all
unhinged to-day, ever since I saw that poor girl in
the room. All at once, it came over me, suppose
Lucy should be so placed. It's wrong—I know it's
wrong, for a man to have these kind of feelings, like
a woman. This is the first time I've had 'em since
Kitely died, and that's a year gone.”