THE DISCOVERY.
"And at the magistrate's command,
And next undid the leathern band
That bound her tresses there,
And raised her felt hat from her head,
And down her slender form there spread
Black ringlets rich and rare."
Old Hurricane meanwhile dined at the public table at the Astor, and
afterward went to his room to rest, smoke and ruminate. And he finished
the evening by supping and retiring to bed.
In the morning, after an early breakfast, he wrote a dozen
advertisements and called a cab and rode around to leave them with the
various daily papers for immediate publication. Then, to lose no time,
he rode up to the Recorder's office to set the police upon the search.
As he was about to enter the front portal he observed the doorway and
passage blocked up with even a larger crowd than usual.
And seeing the cabman who had waited upon him the preceding day, he
inquired of him:
"What is the matter here?"
"Nothing, your honor, 'cept a boy tuk up for wearing girl's clothes, or
a girl tuk up for wearing boy's, I dunno which," said the man, touching
his hat.
"Let me pass, then; I must speak to the chief of police," said Old
Hurricane, shoving his way into the Recorder's room.
"This is not the office of the chief, sir; you will find him on the
other side of the hall," said a bystander.
But before Old Hurricane had gathered the sense of these words, a sight
within the office drew his steps thither. Up before the Recorder stood a
lad of about thirteen years, who, despite his smart, new suit of gray
casinet, his long, rolling, black ringlets and his downcast and blushing
face, Old Hurricane immediately recognized as his acquaintance, of the
preceding day, the saucy young tatterdemalion.
Feeling sorry for the friendless boy, the old man impulsively went up to
him and patted him on the shoulder, saying:
"What! In trouble, my lad? Never mind; never look down! I'll warrant ye
an honest lad from what I've seen myself. Come! come! pluck up a spirit!
I'll see you through, my lad."
"'Lad!' Lord bless your soul, sir, he's no more a lad than you or I! The
young rascal is a girl in boy's clothes, sir!" said the officer who had
the culprit in custody.
"What--what--what!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, gazing in consternation
from the young prisoner to the accuser; "what--what! my newsboy, my
saucy little prince of patches, a girl in boy's clothes?"
"Yes, sir--a young scoundrel! I actually twigged him selling papers at
the Fulton Ferry this morning! A little rascal!"
"A girl in boy's clothes! A girl!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, with his
eyes nearly starting out of his head.
Just then the young culprit looked up in his face with an expression
half melancholy, half mischievous, that appealed to the rugged heart of
the old man. Turning around to the policeman, he startled the whole
office by roaring out:
"Girl, is she, sir? Then, demmy, sir, whether a girl in boy's clothes,
or men's clothes, or soldier's clothes, or sailor's clothes, or any
clothes, or no clothes, sir, treat her with the delicacy due to
womanhood, sir! ay, and the tenderness owed to childhood! for she is but
a bit of a poor, friendless, motherless, fatherless child, lost and
wandering in your great Babylon! No more hard words to her, sir--or by
the ever-lasting----"
"Order!" put in the calm and dignified Recorder.
Old Hurricane, though his face was still purple, his veins swollen and
his eyeballs glaring with anger, immediately recovered himself, turned
and bowed to the Recorder and said:
"Yes, sir, I will keep order, if you'll make that brute of a policeman
reform his language!"
And so saying Old Hurricane subsided into a seat immediately behind the
child, to watch the examination.
"What'll they do with her, do you think?" he inquired of a bystander.
"Send her down, in course."
"Down! Where?"
"To Blackwell's Island--to the work'us, in course."
"To the workhouse--her, that child?--the wretches! Um-m-m-me! Oh-h-h!"
groaned Old Hurricane, stooping and burying his shaggy gray head in his
great hands.
He felt his shoulder touched, and, looking up, saw that the little
prisoner had turned around, and was about to speak to him.
"Governor," said the same clear voice that he had even at first supposed
to belong to a girl--"Governor, don't you keep on letting out that way!
You don't know nothing! You're in the Recorder's Court! If you don't
mind your eye they'll commit you for contempt!"
"Will they? Then they'll do well, my lad! Lass, I mean. I plead guilty
to contempt. Send a child like you to the----! They shan't do it!
Simply, they shan't do it! I, Major Warfield of Virginia, tell you so,
my boy--girl, I mean!"
"But, you innocent old lion, instead of freeing me, you'll find yourself
shut up between four walls! and very narrow ones at that, I tell you!
You'll think yourself in your coffin! Governor, they call it The Tombs!"
whispered the child.
"Attention!" said the clerk.
The little prisoner turned and faced the court. And the "old lion"
buried his shaggy, gray head and beard in his hands and groaned aloud.
"Now, then, what is your name, my lad--my girl, I should say?" inquired
the clerk.
"Capitola, sir."
Old Hurricane pricked up his ears and raised his head, muttering to
himself: "Cap-it-o-la! That's a very odd name! Can't surely be two in
the world of the same! Cap-it-ola!--if it should be my Capitola, after
all! I shouldn't wonder at all! I'll listen and say nothing." And with
this wise resolution, Old Hurricane again dropped his head upon his
hands.
"You say your name is Capitola--Capitola what?" inquired the clerk,
continuing the examination.
"Nothing sir."
"Nothing! What do you mean?"
"I have no name but Capitola, sir."
"Who is your father?"
"Never had any that I know, sir."
"Your mother?"
"Never had a mother either, sir, as ever I heard."
"Where do you live?"
"About in spots in the city, sir."
"Oh--oh--oh!" groaned old Hurricane within his hands.
"What is your calling?" inquired the clerk.
"Selling newspapers, carrying portmanteaus and packages sweeping before
doors, clearing off snow, blacking boots and so on."
"Little odd jobs in general, eh?"
"Yes, sir, anything that I can turn my hand to and get to do."
"Boy--girl, I should say--what tempted you to put yourself into male
attire?"
"Sir?"
"In boy's clothes, then?"
"Oh, yes; want, sir--and--and--danger, sir!" cried the little prisoner,
putting her hands to a face crimson with blushes and for the first time
since her arrest upon the eve of sobbing.
"Oh--oh--oh!" groaned Old Hurricane from his chair.
"Want? Danger? How is that?" continued the clerk.
"Your honor mightn't like to know."
"By all means! It is, in fact, necessary that you should give an account
of yourself," said the clerk.
Old Hurricane once more raised his head, opened his ears and gave close
attention.
One circumstance he had particularly remarked--the language used by the
poor child during her examination was much superior to the slang she had
previously affected, to support her assumed character of newsboy.
"Well, well--why do you pause? Go on--go on, my good boy--girl, I mean
I" said the Recorder, in a tone of kind encouragement.