Old Hurricane, though his face was still purple, his veins swollen and his eyeballs glaring with anger, immediately recovered himself, turned and bowed to the Recorder and said:
"Yes, sir, I will keep order, if you'll make that brute of a policeman reform his language!"
And so saying Old Hurricane subsided into a seat immediately behind the child, to watch the examination.
"What'll they do with her, do you think?" he inquired of a bystander.
"Send her down, in course."
"Down! Where?"
"To Blackwell's Island—to the work'us, in course."
"To the workhouse—her, that child?—the wretches! Um-m-m-me! Oh-h-h!" groaned Old Hurricane, stooping and burying his shaggy gray head in his great hands.
He felt his shoulder touched, and, looking up, saw that the little prisoner had turned around, and was about to speak to him.
"Governor," said the same clear voice that he had even at first supposed to belong to a girl—"Governor, don't you keep on letting out that way! You don't know nothing! You're in the Recorder's Court! If you don't mind your eye they'll commit you for contempt!"