I started, hardly believing my ears. Shades of D'Artagnan, Davy Crockett, and Daniel Boone! Could this lithe, well-knit, brown-eyed young Robin Hood be a convict? "Are you Dick Sands?" I faltered out. "Yes, that's what they call me when I'm out of jail. When I'm in I'm known as One Hundred and Two." He spoke calmly, quite as if I had asked him his age--the voice clear and low, with a certain cadence that surprised me all the more. His answer, too, convinced me that the driver had told him of my time-honored views on solitary confinement, and that it had disposed him to be more or less frank toward me. If he expected, however, any further outburst of sympathy from me he was disappointed. The surprise had been so great, and the impression he had made upon me so favorable, that it would have been impossible for me to remind him even in the remotest way of his former misfortunes. The child looked at me with her pale eyes, and crept still closer, holding on to the man's arm, steadying herself as the stage bumped over the crossings. For some minutes I kept still, my topics of conversation especially adapted to convicts being limited. Despite my implied boasting to the driver, I had never, to my knowledge, met one before. Then, again, I had not yet adjusted my mind to the fact that the man before me had ever worn stripes. So I said, aimlessly:-- "Is that your little sister?" "No, I haven't got any little sister," still in the same calm voice. "This is Ben Mulford's girl; she lives next to me, and I am taking her down for the ride. She's coming back." The child's hand stole along the man's knee, found his fingers and held on. I kept silence for a while, wondering what I would say next. I felt that to a certain extent I was this man's guest, and therefore under obligation to preserve the amenities. I began again:-- "The driver tells me your mother's sick?" "Yes, she is. She went over to her sister's last week and got cold. She isn't what she was--I being away from her so much lately. I got two terms; last time for five years. Every little thing now knocks her out." He raised his head and looked at me calmly--all over--examining each detail,--my derby hat, white tie, fur overcoat, along my arms to my gloves, and slowly down to my shoes. "I s'pose you never done no time?" He had no suspicion that I had; he only meant to be amiable. "No," I said, with equal simplicity, meeting him on his own ground--quite as if an attack of measles at some earlier age was under discussion, to which he had fallen a victim while I had escaped. As he spoke his fingers tightened over the child's hand. Then he turned and straightened her hood, tucking the loose strands of hair under its edge with his fingers. "You seem rather fond of that little girl; is she any relation?" I asked, forgetting that I had asked almost that same question before.