The policeman again leaned over and explained that the prisoners were Dutch, or some other kind of foreigners, and that they did not understand a word of English.
“Hm,” growled his Honor, “why didn’t you tell me that before? Is there anyone in this court-room,” he went on, raising his voice, “who understands foreign languages and would be willing to help the court out of a difficulty?”
He looked expectantly about the large room, but no one volunteered to act as interpreter of anything so comprehensive as “foreign languages.”
“The gintleman over there,” the policeman remarked, pointing out a well-dressed man in the audience, “looks as if he understood furrin languages.”
The gentleman in question disclaimed all knowledge of the languages referred to, and the Court visited him with a look of serious displeasure. It was very annoying, and there seemed positively no way of disposing of the case, except to recommit the prisoners until an interpreter could be found. The judge was about to resort to that expedient, when a new prisoner was led into the court, and the boys gave a simultaneous exclamation of surprise at beholding Jens Skoug, the emigration agent. Mr. Skoug had evidently come into collision with a policeman’s club, or some other unyielding substance, for his left eye was much blackened, and he had a great bump on his forehead. He had been arrested the previous night for disturbing the peace.
“That man, it appears, is acquainted with these Dutch boys,” the Court remarked, nodding to the policeman who had charge of Mr. Skoug; “bring him up.”
“Do you understand foreign languages?” the justice went on, addressing the emigration agent in his severest judicial tones.
“Yes, lots of them,” replied Jens, drowsily.
“Do you know these boys?”