"That's no argument, my dear sir. If he has been twice in state's prison he probably belongs to that class of degenerates in whom all moral sense is lacking. I have begun making some exhaustive investigations of the data obtainable on this subject, which I have embodied in a report, and which I propose sending to the State Committee on the treatment of criminals, and which"---- "Do you know any criminals personally?" I asked blandly, cutting short, as I could see, an extract from the report. His manner, too, strange to say, rather nettled me. "Thank God, no, sir; not one! Do you?" "I am not quite sure," I answered. "I thought I had, but I may have been mistaken." III When I again mounted the sprawling steps of the disheartened-looking tavern, the landlord was sitting by the stove half asleep and alone. He had prepared a little supper, he said, as he led the way, with a benign smile, into the dining-room, where a lonely bracket lamp, backed by a tin reflector, revealed a table holding a pitcher of milk, a saucer of preserves, and some pieces of leather beef about the size used in repairing shoes. "Come, and sit down by me," I said. "I want to talk to you about this young fellow Sands. Tell me everything you know." "Well, you saw him; clean and pert-lookin', ain't he? Don't look much like a habitual criminal, as Polk called him, does he?" "No, he certainly does not; but give me the whole story." I was in a mood either to reserve decision or listen to a recommendation of mercy. "Want me to tell you about the pocketbook or that ham scrape?" "Everything from the beginning," and I reached for the scraps of beef and poured out a glass of milk. "Well, you saw Chris Rankin, didn't you,--that fellow that talked about jail-birds? Well, one night about six or seven years ago,"--the landlord had now drawn out a chair from the other side of the table and was sitting opposite me, leaning forward, his arms on the cloth,--"maybe six years ago, a jay of a farmer stopped at Rankin's and got himself plumb full o' tanglefoot. When he come to pay he hauled out a wallet and chucked it over to Chris and told him to take it out. The wallet struck the edge of the counter and fell on the floor, and out come a wad o' bills. The only other man besides him and Chris in the bar-room was Dick. It was Saturday night, and Dick had come in to git his paper, which was always left to Rankin's. Dick seen he was drunk, and he picked the wallet up and handed it back to the farmer. About an hour after that the farmer come a-runnin' in to Rankin's sober as a deacon, a-hollerin' that he'd been robbed, and wanted to know where Dick was. He said that he had had two rolls o' bills; one was in an envelope with three dollars in it that he'd got from the bank, and the other was the roll he paid Chris with. Dick, he claimed, was the last man who had handled the wallet, and he vowed he'd stole the envelope with the three dollars when he handed it back to him.