Where this criss-cross colloquy of justice or injustice might have left me, and whether free or captive, I may only guess. The proceedings were to gain another and a final interruption. This time it was the red-faced man, he who had called himself “Big Kennedy,” to come panting into the presence of the court. The red-faced man had hurried up the stairs, three steps at a time, and it told upon his breathing.
The magistrate made a most profound bow to the red-faced man. Remembering the somber prophecy of him with the big key, should “Big Kennedy show up to Stall ag'inst me,” my hope, which had revived with the stand taken by the reputable old gentleman, sunk now to lowest marks.
“What will you have, Mr. Kennedy?” purred the magistrate obsequiously.
“Is the court going to dispose of the cases of this boy and this girl?” interrupted the reputable old gentleman warmly. “I demand a jury trial for both of them. I am a taxpayer and propose to have justice.”
“Hold up, old sport, hold up!” exclaimed the redfaced man in cheerful tones. He was addressing the reputable old gentleman. “Let me get to work. I'll settle this thing like throwin' dice.”
“What do you mean, sir, by calling me an old sport?” demanded the reputable old gentleman.
The red-faced man did not heed the question, but wheeled briskly on the magistrate.
“Your honor,” said the red-faced man, “there's nothin' to this. Sheeny Joe there has made a misdeal, that's all. I've looked the case over, your honor; there's nothin' in it; you can let the girl an' the boy go.”
“But he said the Dead Rabbit was a drum for crooks!” protested Sheeny Joe, speaking to the redfaced man.
“S'ppose he did,” retorted the other, “that don't take a dollar out of the drawer.”