“How could I help it if I was robbed?” the boy rushed on, taking advantage of his chance. “And what could I do but ask for work? I was brought up honest, your honor. It would have killed my father if he'd thought I'd be sent to jail. He brought me up to earn my living.”
“Who was your father?” asked the judge.
“His name was Ephraim Prescott, and he was a farmer. You can ask anyone at Euba Corners what sort of a man he was. He'd fought all through the war—he was wounded four times. And if he could be here he'd tell you that I don't deserve to go to jail.”
There was a moment's pause. “What regiment was your father in?” asked the magistrate.
“He was in the Seventeenth Pennsylvania, your honor.”
“Be careful, boy,” said the other sternly. “Don't try to deceive me.”
“I don't want to deceive you, your honor,” protested Samuel.
“What brigade was the Seventeenth Pennsylvania in?”
“In the Third Brigade, your honor.”
“And who commanded it?”