of the cinder trail had not conquered him in the least. He was small
physically, but his skinny arms and legs looked as if they were made of
high-tension wire. His face was shrewd, but also kindly, and the gray
stubble on his cheeks and chin did not in the least hide a smile that
was surprisingly boyish and winning. And when he spoke his cracked
good-natured voice was perfectly in character, evidently that of a man
possessing full self-respect and confidence, yet brimming over with easy
kindliness and humor.

Both guards would have felt instantly, instinctively friendly toward him
if they had been free to feel at all. Instead they were held and amazed
by the apparent fact that at the first scrutiny of the man's outline,
his carriage and his droll, wrinkled face, the prisoner Kinney was moved
and stirred as if confronted by the risen dead.

The old man himself halted, returning Kinney's stare. The moment had,
still half concealed, an unmistakable quality of drama. In the contagion
of suppressed excitement, the other prisoners paused, their tools held
stiffly in their hands. Kinney's mind seemed to be reaching, groping for
some astonishing truth that eluded him.

The old man ran, in great strides, toward him. "My God, aren't you Ben
Darby?" he demanded.

The convict answered him as from a great distance, his voice cool and
calm with an infinite certainty. "Of course," he said. "Of course I'm
Darby."