It was a thief again who was on the stage; but not a thief like that
other, who, for all the reality there was in the spectacle, might have
gone behind the scenes and washed the chalk off his white face. This
thief was of the kind whose fortunes the old naturalistic novelists
were fond of following in fictions of autobiographic form, and who
sometimes actually wrote their own histories; a conventional thief,
of those dear to De Foe and the Spanish picaresque romancers, with
a flavor of good literature about him. Nothing could have been more
classic in incident than the story of the plaintiff, an honest-looking
young fellow, who testified that he had met the prisoner on the street,
and, learning that he was out of work and out of money, had taken him
home to his room and shared his bed with him. I do not know in just
what calling this primitive and trustful hospitality is practiced;
the plaintiff looked and was dressed like a workingman. His strange
bedfellow proved an early riser; he stole away without disturbing
his host, and carried with him all the money that was in his host’s
pockets. By an odd turn of luck the two encountered shortly after
breakfast, and the prisoner ran. The plaintiff followed, but the other
eluded him, and was again sauntering about in safety, when the eye of a
third actor in the drama fell upon him. This was a young man who kept
some sort of small shop, and who was called to the witness-stand in
behalf of the prosecution. He was as stupid as he could well be in some
respects, and very simple questions had to be repeated several times to
him. Yet he had the ferret-like instinct of the thief-catcher, and he
instantly saw that his look fluttered the guilty rogue, who straightway
turned and fled. But this time he had a sharper pursuer than his host,
and he was coursed through all his turns and windings, up stairs and
down, in houses and out, and gripped at last.
“As soon as I saw him start to run,” said the witness, who told his
story with a graphic jauntiness, “I knowed he’d got something.”
“You _didn’t_ know I’d got anything!” exclaimed the thief.
“I knowed you’d get ninety days if I caught up with you,” retorted the
witness, wagging his head triumphantly.
As the officer entered the station-house with his prisoner, the host,
by another odd chance, was coming out, after stating his loss to the
police, and identified his truant guest.
The money, all but thirty cents, was found upon him; and though he
represented that he had lawfully earned it by haying in Dedham, the
fact that it was in notes of the denominations which the plaintiff
remembered was counted against him, and he got the ninety days which
his captor had prophesied. He, too, sat down, and I saw him no more.