“There’s not a word of truth in it!” exclaimed Rob, impetuously.
“Order!” commanded the recorder, and a burly officer moved toward the excited youth, ready to seize him at the word from his superior. A murmur of excitement ran over the throng of spectators.
“Has she been sentenced?” asked Rob, recovering his self-possession, and speaking with a calmness he was far from feeling.
“Blackwell’s—thirty days,” was the stern reply.
“It must not be!” declared Rob, boldly. “She cannot be guilty, Mister Recorder. Is there no way to save her from the workhouse?”
“As this seems to be her first offense, if there was some one to answer for her, she might be let off this time,” and though it may have been his imagination, Rob thought the recorder said this gladly. At any rate, it gave him hope, and he said, promptly:
“I will answer for her, Mister Recorder.”
“That could hardly be, as you are but a minor, as well as unknown to us.”
Rob’s countenance fell; but at that moment a loud voice from the rear of the courtroom exclaimed:
“I’ll answer for her, judge! That gal must never go to the workhouse. It would be a burning shame, in this Christian age.”