It was true that the old man scarcely represented the usual worthless, criminal type that took to vagabondage.  As he paused to scrutinize the convict gang neither insolence nor fear, one of which was certainly to be expected, became manifest in his face.  They had anticipated certain words in greeting, a certain look out of bleary, shifty eyes, but neither materialized.  True, the old man was following the cinder trail northward, but plainly he did not belong to the brotherhood of tramps.  They saw that he was white-haired and withered, but upright; and that undying youth dwelt in his twinkling blue eyes and the complexity of little, good-natured lines about his mouth.  Poverty, age, the hardships 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.”

II

For the moment that chance meeting thrilled all the spectators with the sense of monumental drama.  The convicts stared; Howard, the second guard, forgot his vigilance and stared with open mouth.  He started absurdly, rather guiltily, when the old man whirled toward him.

“What are you doing with Ben Darby in a convict gang?” the old wanderer demanded.

“What am I doin’?” Howard’s astonishment gave way to righteous indignation.  “I’m guardin’ convicts, that’s what I’m a-doin’.”  He composed himself then and shifted his gun from his left to his right shoulder.  “He’s here in this gang because he’s a convict.  Ask my friend, here, if you want to know the details.  And who might you be?”