Mr. Clarke, I look to you to see that your son behaves
himself. You may step aside please. And now, boy, what is your name?"
"Dan Lewis."
"Oh, yes. I think we have met before. What have you to say for yourself?"
The shoeless, capless, unwashed boy, with his ragged trousers hitched to
his shoulders by one suspender, frowned up at the judge through a fringe
of tumbled hair.
"Nothin'," he said doggedly.
"Where do you live?"
"I live at home when me maw's there."
"Where is she now?"
This question caused considerable nudging and side-glancing on the part
of Mrs. Snawdor.
"She's went to the country," said Dan.
"Is your father living?"
"I dunno."
"Did you go to school last year?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Didn't have no shoes."
"Does your mother work?"
This question brought more nudges and glances from Mrs. Snawdor, none of
which were lost on the boy.
"Me mother don't have to work," he said defiantly. "She's a lady."
The judge cleared his throat and called Mrs. Snawdor sharply to order.
"Well, Dan," he said, "I am sorry to see you back here again. What were
you up for before?"
"Chuckin' dice."
"And didn't I tell you that it would go hard with you if you came back?"
"Yes, sir, but I never chucked no more dice."
"And I suppose in spite of the way your mouth is bruised, you'll tell me
you weren't mixed up in this fight?"
The boy stood staring miserably at the wall with eyes in which fear and
hurt pride struggled for mastery.
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