"I came in on a freight train, your honor."

"I see," said the judge. "Well, you came to the wrong place. We're
going to put an end to vagrancy in Lockmanville. Thirty days. Next
case."

Samuel caught his breath. "Your honor," he gasped.

"Next case," repeated the judge.

The policeman started to lead Samuel away. "Your honor," he cried
frantically. "Don't send me to jail." And fighting against the
policeman's grip, he rushed on, "It's not my fault--I'm an honest boy
and I tried to find work. I haven't done anything. And you'll kill me
if you send me to jail. Have mercy! Have mercy!"

The policeman shook him roughly. But there was something so genuine in
Samuel's wail that the judge said, "Wait."

"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."