THE JUDGE INTERFERES
The gloomy weather was over at last. Puddles and pools were fast
drying up in the warmth of pleasant sunshine, while a balmy breeze had
replaced the blustery wind.
“Say, Bob Somers,” remarked Victor Collins, as all were on their way to
the police station next morning, “didn’t I hear you ’phoning to some
one last night?”
“Sure thing, Vic.”
“Who was it?”
“You may know before the morning is over.”
“Oh, come now, Somers, tell me.”
“No; not a word, Vic,” answered Bob, smilingly.
The large, square room in the police station looked very differently
from the way it had on the afternoon before. Already it contained a
large number of people, and in the buzz of conversation, the light
footfalls, and the appearance of a solemn magistrate’s clerk poring
over a great ledger, there was something which filled those whose
nerves were not of the strongest with a curious feeling of restraint.
As each new arrival entered the room tongues were stilled for the
instant, for the magistrate was due to arrive.
Joe Rodgers, in spite of the boys’ support and encouragement, lacked
the air of rugged bravado which usually characterized him.
“I don’t wanter go back to Whiffin, fellers,” he wailed, continually.
“But I know that he’s goin’ to put up an awful holler, ’cause when I
gits down to work I kin do a turrible lot.”
“Brace up, Joe,” said Dave. “You are not back in the circus yet.”
Suddenly the sound of voices and footsteps at the door much louder than
any which had come before caused that particular part of the room to
become the target of many eyes.
A large, portly man entered and directed his footsteps straight toward
the desk behind the railing. This, and the hush which immediately
ensued, proclaimed him to be the magistrate. Closely following came
Peter Whiffin and Mr. Ollie Spudger.
The former’s eyes were instantly roving about the room, and his keen
gaze soon picked out from the throng the forms of Joe Rodgers and his
friends.
“There he is, Spudger!” he exclaimed, in a voice which rang through
the room with appalling distinctness. “He runned away, all right, but
he didn’t git very far. Here, you, boy”--he advanced, with his finger
poised threateningly in the air--“it’s back to the canvas tents for
you. Come right along.”
“I ain’t goin’ to!” growled Joe.
“Uncle Ralph, permit me to introduce Mr. Whiffin, of somewhere,”
chirped Victor Collins.
The circus manager glared at the burly skipper.
“Who are you?” he demanded, roughly. “What does this mean?”
Captain Bunderley was disposed to be diplomatic.
“I’m here in the interests of this boy, Mr. Whiffin,” he said, politely.
“Well, I can’t see that it’s any of your affair.”
“Decidedly not!” seconded Mr. Spudger.
“This here fat Brandon filled his head chuck full of nonsense, an’, as
if that weren’t bad enough, he gits him to actually run away--run away
from his best friend. Why, I could have the law on ’im!”
“I had nothing to do with it, Mr. Whiffin,” answered Dave.
“Oh, cut it out, now. Yer can’t fool me. Yer took ’im right along in
the automobile. I know yer did.”
“’Tain’t nothin’ of the sort, Whiffin!” cried Joe. “I rid on the train.
An’ I kin prove it.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Whiffin. In spite of his suspicions, there was
something in Joe’s earnest manner which impelled him to accept his
words as the truth. “What! An’ you wasted good money that way? It’s
perfectly outrageous, that’s what it is.”
“Order--order!”
A gavel banged with explosive force against the desk. The magistrate
was speaking, and in such a tone that even Mr. Whiffin felt called upon
to moderate his voice.
While the hearings went on, he pleaded, threatened and expostulated
with Joe, curtly declining to listen to any of Uncle Ralph’s
suggestions. And every argument which the manager advanced Joe, who
stood backed up against the wall, met with this reply:
“Naw, I ain’t a-goin’ ter do it!”
“Well, then you’ll go right up before the magistrate,” declared Mr.
Whiffin. “I reckon you’ll listen to him, all right.”
“It’s the only thing that will put any sense into his head,” agreed Mr.
Spudger.
But even this prospect did not make Joe waver.
“I’ve got a tongue in me head, an’ kin use it,” he exclaimed, defiantly.
“Joseph Rodgers!”
This name called out in the monotonous tones of the clerk finally
brought all before the rail.
“Where is the complainant, Peter Whiffin?” asked the magistrate.
“Right here,” answered the manager.
“Has this matter been settled? That’s the boy, I suppose? Is he your
ward?”
“I’m jist as much his guardeen as if it had been writ on paper,”
asserted Peter Whiffin, vigorously. “I’ve got a letter from his uncle
to show how things stand. An’, besides, I’ve given ’im his grub an’
clothes for years.”
“An’ ain’t I worked an’ worked until me hands was blistered to pieces?”
screeched Joe.
“I think there ought to be no difficulty in coming to some amicable
agreement about the boy,” broke in Captain Bunderley. “We do not wish
to infringe on any one’s rights, but all of us think that his future
should be given some consideration. My young friend here”--he indicated
Dave--“will guarantee to find him work in his home town, so that he
will have an opportunity to attend school.”
“By gum!” cried Joe, his eyes sparkling, “jist listen to that!”
“An’ I kin say there’s nothin’ doin’,” said Mr. Whiffin, explosively.
“Produce that letter you spoke about,” returned the magistrate.
“Here it is,” said Mr. Whiffin.
The official’s eyes ran over the contents.
“All it seems to show is that the boy’s guardian knows he is with you,”
he said, slowly. “But, still, I hardly think that I have any authority
to take him from under your care and protection.”
The expression on Joe Rodgers’ face, which a moment before had been so
full of hope, changed to one of blank despair.
“Have you been ill-treated, Joe?” asked the magistrate, in kindly tones.
“No, sir; I ain’t.”
“What’s your complaint, then?”
“If I stays with ’im I won’t never have no chanc’t to git an
eddication, an’----”
“That is a pity. But it is not enough to justify me in taking any
action. Perhaps you may be able to make some arrangement with Mr.
Whiffin so that you can go to school in the winter.”
“Your Honor, I have a word to say about this case.”
A strong, clear voice attracted the attention of every one in the court
room. They saw a tall, commanding-looking man step before the rail; and
they also saw the magistrate stare at him with an air of bewilderment.
“Judge Hampton!” he stammered.
The former jurist nodded.
“I appear before you as the representative of Joe Rodgers.”
“And now I know who the big Indian was ’phoning to last night,” said
Victor, in a loud whisper.
“Gee, that’s the time Bob made a safe hit,” murmured Tom.
Mr. Whiffin’s face expressed a comical degree of bewilderment.
“What--what?” he gasped. “I’d like to know what right you have to
meddle in this case!”
“Here’s a letter which Mr. Whiffin received from the boy’s uncle,” said
the magistrate, handing the missive to the former jurist.
There was a moment of silence while Judge Hampton was reading it.
“You are in a pretty poor position, sir,” he said, looking up from the
sheet and addressing Mr. Whiffin. “This amounts to nothing. The duties
and responsibilities of guardianship cannot be so lightly thrust into
another’s hands by a relative.”
Mr. Whiffin glared savagely.
“I tell you I won’t stand for anything like this!” he cried. “Judge or
no judge, I have my rights.”
“And I’ll back you up to the limit,” said Mr. Spudger, who could
see, in the way events were shaping themselves, that the circus was
in danger of losing the services of one who had been trained in the
business.
“I feel that the advantages which this boy may gain will so far offset
any mere personal loss to Mr. Whiffin that I must ask your Honor
to parole Joe Rodgers into the care of Captain Bunderley until his
relatives can be communicated with.”
“Request granted!” exclaimed the magistrate.
Joe, highly delighted, grasped Dave Brandon by the arm.
“Dave,” he said, huskily, “you’re the best feller in the whole world.”