Dickon Harvey was a diamond thief, polished in person and of fluent address. Like those madmen in asylums whom the casual visitor finds perfectly rational and indeed delightful companions, Dickon Harvey never failed to convince callers at the prison of his moral sanity. He admitted past misuse of undeniable talents, though stoutly denying the particular crime upon which he was sentenced. His legends of early temptation and ambition to reform had softened the heart of many a philanthropist to pity. But his cold eye glittered with a point of light sharp enough to cut the Koh-i-noor, and a turnkey of exceptional ability was assigned to the ward which contained Dickon Harvey.
The Right Spur derived his sobriquet from his position as head of the rooster gang. There was little of what Dobbs called "hart" in his line of work, which consisted simply in sandbagging and garroting picked-up acquaintances or passers-by. But in the crude occupation of the footpad he had displayed a brute daring that had surrounded his name with associations of terror, and this diabolical halo had been brightened and enlarged by his turbulence in jail. He was middle-sized and barrel-built, with the complexion of a teamster, a wicked smile and a scar.
Minister Slick's career would be pictured by a line more excursive than the diagram with which Sterne represents the history of Tristram Shandy. His criminal twist had begun just where most men's end. Up to the age of forty he had been able to delude several congregations into a belief in his fitness for the sacred ministry. His sermons had been noted no less for unction than for orthodoxy, their only heresies being grammatical ones. Then came a fall, sudden and irretrievable. In a few months he had developed unusual skill as a confidence man, in which he was aided by a certain oiliness of manner and insinuating ease of speech. He was tall and dignified, with a long gray beard, which Tapp permitted him to wear on account of a chronic quinsy, though his kennel-mates whispered this was all in your eye—a strange location to be sure, for a clergyman's sore throat—but minute veracity was never expected of Minister Slick.
"Mr. Warden," said Dickon Harvey, "I am desired, with my fellow-spokesmen, by the entire community, to tender you our deepest respect upon your retirement from the office whose duties you have so conscientiously fulfilled."
Tapp's lips quivered. Was this irony or praise?
"If you have not always met with success, if our interests and yours have seemed to clash at times, believe me there are few among us who do not appreciate that the fault is in the system and not the man."
"The system, the system," there rose a murmur among the men, which died away like a stifled cry when Longlegs raised his gun.
"We have read with interest the article on 'Prison Discipline,' contributed by you to the last number of the Penological Quarterly, and the petition we present is, we believe, in line with most of the reforms you suggest."
"You desire to present me a petition. Of what value is that? Col. Mainwaring enters to-morrow. It belongs to him."
"A recommendation from yourself, Mr. Warden," answered Minister Slick, "would surely have great weight."