A boy of twenty I should have
said--perhaps twenty-five; abnormally strong, a big animal with small
brain-power, perfect digestion, and with every function of his body
working like a clock. Photograph his head and come upon it suddenly in a
collection of others, and you would have said: "A big country bumpkin
who ploughs all day and milks the cows at night." He might be the
bloodthirsty ruffian, the human wild beast, the Warden had described,
but he certainly did not look it. I would like to have had just such a
man on any one of my gangs with old Captain Joe over him. He would have
fought the sea with the best of them and made the work of the surf-men
twice as easy if he had taken a hand at the watch-tackles.
I turned to the Warden again. My own summing up differed materially from
his estimate, but I did not thrust mine upon him. He had had, of course,
a much wider experience among criminals--I, in fact, had had none at
all--and could not be deceived by outward appearances.
"You say they are going to try him to-day?" I asked.
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