Desmas was a large man physically—­Irish by birth, a politician by training—­who had been one thing and another in Philadelphia from a policeman in his early days and a corporal in the Civil War to a ward captain under Mollenhauer.  He was a canny man, tall, raw-boned, singularly muscular-looking, who for all his fifty-seven years looked as though he could give a splendid account of himself in a physical contest.  His hands were large and bony, his face more square than either round or long, and his forehead high.  He had a vigorous growth of short-clipped, iron-gray hair, and a bristly iron-gray mustache, very short, keen, intelligent blue-gray eyes; a florid complexion; and even-edged, savage-looking teeth, which showed the least bit in a slightly wolfish way when he smiled.  However, he was not as cruel a person as he looked to be; temperamental, to a certain extent hard, and on occasions savage, but with kindly hours also.  His greatest weakness was that he was not quite mentally able to recognize that there were mental and social differences between prisoners, and that now and then one was apt to appear here who, with or without political influences, was eminently worthy of special consideration.  What he could recognize was the differences pointed out to him by the politicians in special cases, such as that of Stener—­not Cowperwood.  However, seeing that the prison was a public institution apt to be visited at any time by lawyers, detectives, doctors, preachers, propagandists, and the public generally, and that certain rules and regulations had to be enforced (if for no other reason than to keep a moral and administrative control over his own help), it was necessary to maintain—­and that even in the face of the politician—­a certain amount of discipline, system, and order, and it was not possible to be too liberal with any one.  There were, however, exceptional cases—­men of wealth and refinement, victims of those occasional uprisings which so shocked the political leaders generally—­who had to be looked after in a friendly way.

Desmas was quite aware, of course, of the history of Cowperwood and Stener.  The politicians had already given him warning that Stener, because of his past services to the community, was to be treated with special consideration.  Not so much was said about Cowperwood, although they did admit that his lot was rather hard.  Perhaps he might do a little something for him but at his own risk.

“Butler is down on him,” Strobik said to Desmas, on one occasion.  “It’s that girl of his that’s at the bottom of it all.  If you listened to Butler you’d feed him on bread and water, but he isn’t a bad fellow.  As a matter of fact, if George had had any sense Cowperwood wouldn’t be where he is to-day.  But the big fellows wouldn’t let Stener alone.  They wouldn’t let him give Cowperwood any money.”

Although Strobik had been one of those who, under pressure from Mollenhauer, had advised Stener not to let Cowperwood have any more money, yet here he was pointing out the folly of the victim’s course.  The thought of the inconsistency involved did not trouble him in the least.