“Who is he?” I demanded, my amazement beginning to sit up.
“He's a gopher,” returned Big Kennedy, surveying the stranger with victorious complacency. “Yes, indeed; he can go through a safe like th' grace of heaven through a prayer meetin'.”
“Is he a burglar?”
“Burglar? No!” retorted Big Kennedy disgustedly; “he's an artist. Any hobo could go in with drills an' spreaders an' pullers an' wedges, an' crack a box. But this party does it by ear; just sits down before a safe, an' fumbles an' fools with it ten minutes, an' swings her open. I tell you he's a wonder! He knows th' insides of a safe like a priest knows th' insides of a prayer-book.”
“Where was he?” I asked. “Where did you pick him up?” and here I took a second survey of the talented stranger, who dropped his eyes on the floor.
“The Pen,” said Big Kennedy. “The warden an' me are old side-partners, an' I borrowed him. I knew where he was, d'ye see! He's doin' a stretch of five years for a drop-trick he turned in an Albany bank. That's what comes of goin' outside your specialty; he'd ought to have stuck to safes.”
“Aren't you afraid he'll run?” I said. “You can't watch him night and day, and he'll give you the slip.”
“No fear of his side-steppin',” replied Big Kennedy confidently. “He's only got six weeks more to go, an' it wouldn't pay to slip his collar for a little pinch of time like that. Besides, I've promised him five hundred dollars for this job, an' left it in th' warden's hands.”
“What's his name?” I inquired.
“Darby the Goph.”