“What were you saying to this girl?” asked the magistrate mildly of Sheeny Joe, and indicating Apple Cheek with his eye where she sat tearful and frightened by my side. “This gentleman”--the reputable old gentleman snorted fiercely--“declares that you were about to lure her to a low resort.” “Your honor, it was the Dead Rabbit,” said Sheeny Joe. “Is the Dead Rabbit,” observed the magistrate, to the captain, who was still lounging about, “is the Dead Rabbit a place of good repute?” “It aint no Astor House,” replied the captain, “but no one expects an Astor House in Water Street.” “Is it a resort for thieves?” The magistrate still advanced his queries in a fashion apologetic and subdued. The reputable old gentleman impressed him as one he would not like to offend. Then, too, there was my father--an honest working-man by plain testimony of his face. On the other hand stood Sheeny Joe, broken of nose, bandaged, implacable. Here were three forces of politics, according to our magistrate, who was thinking on a re-election; he would prefer to please them all. Obviously, he in no sort delighted in his present position, since whichever way he turned it might be a turn toward future disaster for himself. “Is the Dead Rabbit a resort for thieves?” again asked the magistrate. “Well,” replied the captain judgmatically, “even a crook has got to go somewhere. That is,” he added, “when he aint in hock.” Where this criss-cross colloquy of justice or injustice might have left me, and whether free or captive, I may only guess. The proceedings were to gain another and a final interruption. This time it was the red-faced man, he who had called himself “Big Kennedy,” to come panting into the presence of the court. The red-faced man had hurried up the stairs, three steps at a time, and it told upon his breathing. The magistrate made a most profound bow to the red-faced man. Remembering the somber prophecy of him with the big key, should “Big Kennedy show up to Stall ag'inst me,” my hope, which had revived with the stand taken by the reputable old gentleman, sunk now to lowest marks. “What will you have, Mr. Kennedy?” purred the magistrate obsequiously. “Is the court going to dispose of the cases of this boy and this girl?” interrupted the reputable old gentleman warmly. “I demand a jury trial for both of them. I am a taxpayer and propose to have justice.” “Hold up, old sport, hold up!” exclaimed the redfaced man in cheerful tones. He was addressing the reputable old gentleman. “Let me get to work. I'll settle this thing like throwin' dice.” “What do you mean, sir, by calling me an old sport?” demanded the reputable old gentleman. The red-faced man did not heed the question, but wheeled briskly on the magistrate. “Your honor,” said the red-faced man, “there's nothin' to this. Sheeny Joe there has made a misdeal, that's all. I've looked the case over, your honor; there's nothin' in it; you can let the girl an' the boy go.”