Chapter XXXVII.
The Magistrate.
The dawn came at last, and soon after the dawn footsteps, but they approached only to recede. When the door at length opened, it was but to let a pair of eyes glance round on them, and close again. The hours seemed to be always beginning, and never going on. But at the long last came the big policeman. To Clare’s loving eyes, how friendly he looked!
“Come, kids!” he said, and took them through a long passage to a room in the town-hall, where sat a formal-looking old gentleman behind a table.
“Good morning, sir!” said Clare, to the astonishment of the magistrate, who set his politeness down as impudence.
Nor was the mistake to be wondered at; for the baby in Clare’s arms hid, with the mountain-like folds of its blanket, the greater part of his face, and the old gentleman’s eyes fell first on Tommy; and if ever scamp was written clear on a countenance, it was written clear on Tommy’s.
“Hold your impudent tongue!” said a policeman, and gave Clare a cuff on the head.
“Hold, John,” interposed the magistrate; “it is my part to punish, not yours.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Clare.
“I will thank you, sir,” returned the magistrate, “not to speak till I put to you the questions I am about to put to you.—What is the charge against the prisoners?”
“Housebreaking, sir,” answered the big man.