“If the court please, I'm told so.”
“Your honor,” broke in Sheeny Joe with a front of injury, “w'at's that got to do with his sandbaggin' me? Am I to be murdered w'en peacefully about me business, just 'cause a guy's got a father?”
“What were you saying to this girl?” asked the magistrate mildly of Sheeny Joe, and indicating Apple Cheek with his eye where she sat tearful and frightened by my side. “This gentleman”—the reputable old gentleman snorted fiercely—“declares that you were about to lure her to a low resort.”
“Your honor, it was the Dead Rabbit,” said Sheeny Joe.
“Is the Dead Rabbit,” observed the magistrate, to the captain, who was still lounging about, “is the Dead Rabbit a place of good repute?”
“It aint no Astor House,” replied the captain, “but no one expects an Astor House in Water Street.”
“Is it a resort for thieves?”
The magistrate still advanced his queries in a fashion apologetic and subdued. The reputable old gentleman impressed him as one he would not like to offend. Then, too, there was my father—an honest working-man by plain testimony of his face. On the other hand stood Sheeny Joe, broken of nose, bandaged, implacable. Here were three forces of politics, according to our magistrate, who was thinking on a re-election; he would prefer to please them all. Obviously, he in no sort delighted in his present position, since whichever way he turned it might be a turn toward future disaster for himself.
“Is the Dead Rabbit a resort for thieves?” again asked the magistrate.
“Well,” replied the captain judgmatically, “even a crook has got to go somewhere. That is,” he added, “when he aint in hock.”