Upon its veranda sat a red-face, stupid-looking man, and Daley, springing from the wagon, approached him. “Good day, judge,” he said. Justice Mullern stared at Daley curiously. “Oh, yes, I know you now,” he said, after a pause. “You’re Daley.” “Daley it is, judge. I’ve got a case for you.” “What kind of a case?” “Burglary.” “Have to bring it to my town office.” “That don’t suit me. I’m in a hurry. See here, judge, you can be accommodating if you want to. I threw a hundred dollars in your way for discharging me for larceny some time since.” Mullern flushed slightly. “Ahem! Yes, yes, well?” “It’s fifty now, and a plain case. In the wagon there is a boy.” “Your boy?” “My nephew,” lied Daley glibly. “Bad boy?” “Terrible!” “What’s he been doing?” “Stealing. He’s the worst thief you ever saw. I’ve had to tie him hand and foot to fetch him here. The evidence is plain--mine and a friend. You just try the case informally.” “It’s sort of irregular?” demurred the justice. “Not at all. Who’s going to know the difference? You’re the law in this district, ain’t you?” “I reckon I am.” “Take the case to town, and you make a few dollars in fees?” “Ye-es.” “Try it here, and it’s a fifty dollar note for you.” “There ought to be a jury?” “Nonsense!” “I might get in trouble.” “How?” “Irregular proceedings.” “We won’t say so.” “The boy?” “Send him to the reform school, and that’s the end of it. There’s your money.” The justice’s last qualms of conscience seemed to vanish at the sight of money. He went indoors, and Daley followed him. Mullern seated himself at a desk and asked Daley to relate his story. The latter went through the details of the false charge of theft. “Boy’s name?” asked Mullern finally, selecting a legal blank and a pen. “Robert Rawley.” “Age?” “Sixteen.” “Committed----” “Till twenty-one.” Justice Mullern wrote out a blank. “I’ve no court officer here to take the boy,” he said. “Just give me the document. I’ll deliver him over to the reform school authorities.” The justice hesitated, but was finally prevailed upon to agree to Daley’s desires. The mummery of justice was completed at last. Without even so much as seeing the prisoner, the justice had sentenced Dean Mercer to a living tomb. “Got it?” asked Spofford, as Daley returned to the wagon. “Yes. Drive on to Epson Springs--the State Reform School.” They arrived there at dusk. The warden received the prisoner and the document, Daley explaining that the former had in some way got liquor, and was stupid from its effects. “He’s a hard case,” he told the warden, “tricky and deceptive. He’ll tell you a whole batch of his lies when he wakes up.” “We’re used to that.” “Watch him closely.” “Never fear, we will,” answered the warden grimly. The warden called an officer, and Dean, insensible, was removed to the solitary--a dark cell, where new and refractory prisoners are placed in penal institutions.