The old convict had lost the middle finger of his right hand in a machine in the prison years before, and now, in his imbecility, he claimed the one compensation imaginable; he used this mutilation for the entertainment of his fellows. If any one looked at him, he would spread the fingers of his right hand over his face, the stub of the middle finger held against his nose, his first and third fingers drawing down the lower lids of his eyes until their whites showed, and then wiggle his thumb and little finger and look, now gravely, now with a grin, into the eyes of the observer. The old convict, across whose sodden brain must have glimmered a vague notion that something was required of him, was practising his one accomplishment, his silly gaze fixed on the bartender. When the bartender saw this his face set in a kind of superstitious terror. "Don’t mind him," said Archie; "He’s stir simple." The bartender, as he set out the whisky, was reassured, not so much by the patronage as by Archie’s explanation that he had just come from prison. He had been at Danny Gibbs’s long enough to know that a man is not to be judged solely by his clothes, and Archie, as a man reduced to the extremity of the garb the state supplied, might still be of importance in their world. While they were drinking, another man entered the saloon, a short, heavy man, and, standing across the room, looked, not at Archie and Dad, but at their reflections in the mirror behind the bar. Archie, recognizing a trick of detectives, turned slightly away. The man went out. "Elbow, eh?" said Archie. "Yep," said the bartender. "Cunningham." "A new one on me. Kouka here yet?" "Oh, yes." "Flyin’?" "Yep." "Well," said Archie, "give ’s another. I got a thirst in the big house anyway--and these rum turns." He smiled an apology for his clothes. They drank again; then Archie said: "Tell Dan I was here." "Who shall I say?" inquired the bartender. "Dutch." "Oh, yes! All right. He’ll be down about one o’clock." "All right. Come on, Dad," said Archie, and he went out, towing his battered hulk of humanity behind him. At the corner he saw Cunningham with another man, whom he recognized as Quinn. When they met, as was inevitable, Quinn smiled and said: "Hello, Archie! Back again?" "Yes," said Archie. He would have kept on, but Quinn laid a hand on his arm. "Hold on a minute," he said. "What’s the rap?" asked Archie. "Well, you’d better come down to the front office a minute." Cunningham had seized the old man, and the two were taken to the Central Police Station. They were charged with being "suspicious persons," and spent the night in prison. The next morning, when they were arraigned before Bostwick, the old man surprised every one by pleading guilty, and Bostwick sentenced him to the workhouse for thirty days. But Archie demanded a jury and asked that word be sent to his attorney. "Your attorney!" sneered Bostwick, "and who’s your attorney?"