The judge rapped vigorously with his little mallet, and exclaimed, “Mr. Sheriff, preserve order. The court is now open.”
The sheriff, first giving chairs in the lawyers’ circle to Paul and the teacher, because there were no other seats vacant, went down in front of the gallery, and shouted to the boys that if they made any more disturbance he would throw them all out of the window and break their heads on the pavement below.
No lighter threat would have been of any avail, for a more restless set of boys than they were during the next half-hour never was seen. It seemed to them that the trial never would begin; the lawyers talked to the judge about all sorts of things, and the judge looked over papers as leisurely as if time were eternity; but finally his honor said,
“Mr. Sheriff, bring in John Doe.”
Every one in the front row of the gallery stood up, two or three minutes later, as Ned Johnston, who sat where he could look through the open door by which the judge had entered, signalled that the prisoner was coming. Many other people stood up when the sheriff and the prisoner entered, for all were curious to have a good look at the man whom but few of them had seen. The sheriff placed John Doe in the prisoners’ box, where, to the great disgust of the boys, only the back of a head and two shoulders could be seen from the gallery. His honor nodded at the clerk, and the clerk arose, cleared his throat, and said,
“John Doe, stand up.”
The prisoner obeyed; and as his head was slightly turned, so as to face the clerk, the boys had a fair view of it. It did not seem a bad face; indeed, it was rather handsome and pleasing, although there was a steady twitching of the lips that prevented its looking exactly the same from first to last.
“John Doe,” said the clerk, turning over some of the sheets of a very bulky document he held in his hand, “a Grand-jury appointed by this Court has found a true bill of indictment against you for passing counterfeit money, to wit, a five-dollar note purporting to have been issued by the Founders’ National Bank of Mechanics’ Valley, State of Pennsylvania, the same note having been offered in payment for goods purchased from Samuel Wardwell, a merchant doing business in this town of Laketon, and for passing similar bills upon other persons herein resident. Are you guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty!” answered the prisoner.
A sensation ran through the house, and at least half a dozen of the fifty or more citizens who had hoped to be drawn on the jury whispered to their neighbors that it was a shameful trick to appeal to the judge’s sympathy, and get off with a light sentence; but they hoped that his honor would not be taken in by any such hypocritical nonsense.