I have an appointment at
twelve-thirty."
The lawyer made his way up the aisle and disappeared through the
door which all the morning had been swallowing one small offender
after another.
Almost immediately a loud voice called from the platform:
"Case of Mac Clarke! Nance Molloy! Dan Lewis!" And Nance with a sudden
leap of her heart, knew that her time had come.
In the inner room, where the juvenile cases had a private hearing, the
judge sat at a big desk, scanning several pages of type-written paper. He
was a young judge with a keen, though somewhat weary, face and eyes, full
of compassionate knowledge. But Nance did not see the judge; her gaze was
riveted upon her two arch enemies: Mason, with his flat nose and
pugnacious jaw, and "Old Cock-eye," the policeman who looked strangely
unfamiliar with his helmet off.
"Well, Mr. Mason," said the judge when the three small offenders had
been ranged in front of the desk, with the witnesses grouped behind them,
"I'll ask you to tell me just what took place last Saturday afternoon at
the cathedral."
Mason cleared his throat and, with evident satisfaction, proceeded to set
forth his version of the story:
"I was sweeping out the vestibule, your Honor, when I heard a lot of
yelling and knew that a fight was on. It's that away every Saturday
afternoon that I ain't on the spot to stop it. I run down through the
cathedral and out to the back gate. The alley was swarming with a mob of
fighting, yelling children.
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