The rain had penetrated his clothing and vigorous exercise had not greatly
diminished the chill in his blood. His heart knocked violently against his
ribs and he was dismayed by his shortness of wind. The Hopper was not so
young as in the days when his agility and genius for effecting a quick
"get-away" had earned for him his sobriquet. The last time his Bertillon
measurements were checked (he was subjected to this humiliating
experience in Omaha during the Ak-Sar-Ben carnival three years earlier)
official note was taken of the fact that The Hopper's hair, long carried
in the records as black, was rapidly whitening.

At forty-eight a crook--even so resourceful and versatile a member of the
fraternity as The Hopper--begins to mistrust himself. For the greater part
of his life, when not in durance vile, The Hopper had been in hiding, and
the state or condition of being a fugitive, hunted by keen-eyed agents of
justice, is not, from all accounts, an enviable one. His latest experience
of involuntary servitude had been under the auspices of the State of
Oregon, for a trifling indiscretion in the way of safe-blowing. Having
served his sentence, he skillfully effaced himself by a year's siesta on
a pine-apple plantation in Hawaii. The island climate was not wholly
pleasing to The Hopper, and when pine-apples palled he took passage from
Honolulu as a stoker, reached San Francisco (not greatly chastened in
spirit), and by a series of characteristic hops, skips, and jumps across
the continent landed in Maine by way of the Canadian provinces. The Hopper
needed money. He was not without a certain crude philosophy, and it had
been his dream to acquire by some brilliant _coup_ a sufficient fortune
upon which to retire and live as a decent, law-abiding citizen for the
remainder of his days. This ambition, or at least the means to its
fulfillment, can hardly be defended as praiseworthy, but The Hopper was a
singular character and we must take him as we find him. Many prison