Samuel's turn came and he stood before the bar. His name was read, and the charge--vagrancy. “Well?” said the judge mechanically. “What have you to say for yourself?” Samuel caught his breath. “It's not my fault, sir,” he began. “Your honor,” prompted the policeman who stood at his elbow. “Your honor,” said Samuel, “I lost all my money. And I've been trying to find work, your honor.” “Have you any friends in town?” “No, your honor.” “How long have you been here?” “Only since yesterday, your honor.” “How did you get here?” “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.” 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?” “General Anderson--that is, until he was killed at the battle of Chancellorsville. My father was there.” “I was there, too,” said the judge. “My father used to tell me about it,” exclaimed Samuel with sudden eagerness. “His brigade was in the right wing and they had a double line of trenches. And the rebels charged the line with cavalry. They charged a dozen times during the day, and there were big trees cut down by the bullets. My father said the rebels never fought harder than they did right there.” “Yes,” said his honor, “I know. I was one of them.” Everyone within hearing laughed; and Samuel turned crimson. “I beg pardon, your honor,” he said.