the building, begging for medicine; for if there is anything that a
pauper takes supreme delight in it is drugs. Passing along with them to
a little lobby, where he could inspect them more conveniently, he left
Jim behind, as that personage did not prove to be so interesting and
impressible as he had hoped. Jim watched him as he moved away, with a
quiet chuckle, and then turned to pursue his investigations. The next
cell he encountered held the man he was looking for. Sitting in the
straw, talking to himself or some imaginary companion, he saw his old
friend. It took him a full minute to realize that the gentle sportsman,
the true Christian, the delicate man, the delightful companion, was
there before him, a wreck--cast out from among his fellows, confined in
a noisome cell, and hopelessly given over to his vagrant fancies and the
tender mercies of Thomas Buffum. When the memory of what Paul Benedict
had been to him, at one period of his life, came to Jim, with the full
realization of his present misery and degradation, the strong man wept
like a child. He drew an old silk handkerchief from his pocket, blew his
nose as if it had been a trumpet, and then slipped up to the cell and
said, softly: "Paul Benedict, give us your benediction."

"Jim!" said the man, looking up quickly.

"Good God! he knows me," said Jim, whimpering. "Yes, Mr. Benedict, I'm
the same rough old fellow. How fare ye?"

"I'm miserable," replied the man.

"Well, ye don't look as ef ye felt fust-rate. How did ye git in here?"

"Oh, I was damned when I died. It's all right, I know; but it's
terrible."