“‘Murder!’
“There was something terrible in his calm, even tones, and I instinctively shrank back at the dreadful word. Perceiving that the gesture pained him, however, I continued the colloquy by asking—
“‘Pray how many times have you been in prison, Mr. Malden?’
“‘Call me Dick, sir,’ said the prisoner, laughing, but evidently gratified at my civility. ‘I have been in prison—in this same prison—five times, when they “copped” me on this last go; I had a pretty sure thing of it, however.’
“‘I suppose if you were released to-morrow,’ said I, ‘it would not be long before you would be back again?’
“‘Very likely,’ he replied, nodding his head meditatively.
“Then, perceiving the mingled curiosity and incredulity in my countenance, he continued—
“‘If you care to hear it, sir, I don’t mind giving you some particulars of a thief’s story. The last man I saw, about eight months ago, was a sort of a tract distributor, who asked me a great many silly questions about religious matters, of which he himself was as ignorant as that spider on the wall there. He was one of your d——d canting hypocrites, without enough brains to call a congregation into a God-shop, and without pride enough to work for a living, so I turned my back on him at the start. I see nothing but pleasant sympathy in your face, however, and would like the most of my half-hour with you.’
“I gladly assented, and the prisoner-for-life began his story as follows:—
“‘I never knew my mother, and my father was a professional thief—at least, he was when I first recognised him as my father. He brought me up as a thief, and I soon proved a wonderful adept, but, in his drunken moments (he was seldom sober) he beat me so cruelly that, when fourteen years of age, I ran away from him, and came from the western city, in which we lived, to this city.