“Where is the complainant, Peter Whiffin?” asked the magistrate.
“Right here,” answered the manager.
“Has this matter been settled? That’s the boy, I suppose? Is he your ward?”
“I’m jist as much his guardeen as if it had been writ on paper,” asserted Peter Whiffin, vigorously. “I’ve got a letter from his uncle to show how things stand. An’, besides, I’ve given ’im his grub an’ clothes for years.”
“An’ ain’t I worked an’ worked until me hands was blistered to pieces?” screeched Joe.
“I think there ought to be no difficulty in coming to some amicable agreement about the boy,” broke in Captain Bunderley. “We do not wish to infringe on any one’s rights, but all of us think that his future should be given some consideration. My young friend here”—he indicated Dave—“will guarantee to find him work in his home town, so that he will have an opportunity to attend school.”
“By gum!” cried Joe, his eyes sparkling, “jist listen to that!”
“An’ I kin say there’s nothin’ doin’,” said Mr. Whiffin, explosively.
“Produce that letter you spoke about,” returned the magistrate.
“Here it is,” said Mr. Whiffin.