"Case of Mac Clarke! Nance Molloy! Dan Lewis!" And Nance with a sudden leap of her heart, knew that her time had come. In the inner room, where the juvenile cases had a private hearing, the judge sat at a big desk, scanning several pages of type-written paper. He was a young judge with a keen, though somewhat weary, face and eyes, full of compassionate knowledge. But Nance did not see the judge; her gaze was riveted upon her two arch enemies: Mason, with his flat nose and pugnacious jaw, and "Old Cock-eye," the policeman who looked strangely unfamiliar with his helmet off. "Well, Mr. Mason," said the judge when the three small offenders had been ranged in front of the desk, with the witnesses grouped behind them, "I'll ask you to tell me just what took place last Saturday afternoon at the cathedral." Mason cleared his throat and, with evident satisfaction, proceeded to set forth his version of the story: "I was sweeping out the vestibule, your Honor, when I heard a lot of yelling and knew that a fight was on. It's that away every Saturday afternoon that I ain't on the spot to stop it. I run down through the cathedral and out to the back gate. The alley was swarming with a mob of fighting, yelling children. Then I see these two boys a-fighting each other up at the end of the alley, and before I can get to 'em, this here little girl flings herself between 'em, and the big boy picks up a rock and heaves it straight th'u the cathedral window." "Well, Mac," said the judge, turning to the trim, white-clad figure confronting him--a figure strangely different from the type that usually stood there. "You have heard what the janitor charges you with. Are you guilty?" "Yes, sir," said Mac. "The breaking of the window was an accident?" Mac glanced quickly at his father's lawyer, then back at the judge. "Yes, sir." "But you were fighting in the alley?" "I was keeping the alley boys out of the cathedral yard." "That's a lie!" came in shrill, indignant tones from the little girl at his elbow. "There seems to be some difference of opinion here," said the judge, putting his hand over his mouth to repress a smile at the vehemence of the accusation. "Suppose we let this young lady give her version of it." Nance jerking her arm free from Mrs. Snawdor's restraining hand, plunged breathlessly into her story. "He was settin' on the fence, along with a parcel of other guys, a-makin' faces an' callin' names long afore we even took no notice of 'em." "Both sides is to blame, your Honor," interposed Mason, "there ain't a day when the choir rehearses that I don't have to go out and stop 'em fighting." "Well, in this case who started the trouble?" asked the judge. Mrs. Snawdor clutched at Nance, but it was too late. "I did," she announced. The judge looked puzzled. "Why, I thought you said the choir boys began it by sitting on the fence and making faces and calling names."