At half-past one o'clock people began to loiter into the court-house at Wilkesbarre; at two the court-room was full. They were there, the most of them, to hear the close of the now celebrated Burnham case.

The judge came in from a side door and took his seat on the bench. Beneath him the prothonotary was busy writing in a big book. Down in the bar the attorneys sat chatting familiarly and pleasantly with one another. Sharpman was there, and Craft was at his elbow.

Goodlaw was there, and Mrs. Burnham sat in her accustomed place. The crier opened court in a voice that could be heard to the farthest end of the room, though few of the listeners understood what his "Oyez! oyez! oyez!" was all about.

Some opinions of the court were read and handed down by the judge. The prothonotary called the jury list for the week. Two or three jurors presented applications for discharge which were patiently considered and acted on by the court.

The sheriff arose and acknowledged a bunch of deeds, the title-pages of which had been read aloud by the judge.

An attorney stepped up to the railing and presented a petition to the court; another attorney arose and objected to it, and quite a little discussion ensued over the matter. It finally ended by a rule being granted to show cause why the petition should not be allowed. Then there were several motions made by as many lawyers. All this took much time; a good half-hour at least, perhaps longer.

Finally there was a lull. The judge was busily engaged in writing. The attorneys seemed to have exhausted their topics for conversation and to be waiting for new ones.

The jury in the Burnham case sat listlessly in their chairs, glad that their work in the matter at issue was nearly done, yet regretful that a case had not been made out which might have called for the exercise of that large intelligence, that critical acumen, that capacity for close reasoning, of which the members of the average jury feel themselves to be severally and collectively possessed. As it was, there would be little for them to do. The case was extremely one-sided, "like the handle on a jug," as one of them sententiously and somewhat scornfully remarked.

The judge looked up from his writing. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "are you ready to proceed in the case of 'Craft against Burnham'?"

"We are ready on the part of the plaintiff," replied Sharpman.

Goodlaw arose. "If it please the court," he said, "we are in the same position to-day that we were in on Saturday night at the adjournment. This matter has been, with us, one of investigation rather than of defence.

"Though we hesitate to accept a statement of fact from a man of Simon Craft's self-confessed character, yet the corroborative evidence seems to warrant a belief in the general truth of his story.

"We do not wish to offer any further contradictory evidence than that already elicited from the plaintiff's witnesses. I may say, however, that this decision on our part is due not so much to my own sense of the legal barrenness of our case as to my client's deep conviction that the boy Ralph is her son, and to her great desire that justice shall be done to him."

"In that case," said the judge, "I presume you will have nothing further to offer on the part of the plaintiff, Mr. Sharpman?"

"Nothing," replied that gentleman, with an involuntary, smile of satisfaction on his lips.

"Then," said Goodlaw, who was still standing, "I suppose the evidence may be declared closed. I know of no—" He stopped and turned to see what the noise and confusion back by the entrance was about. The eyes of every one else in the room were turned in that direction also. A tipstaff was trying to detain Ralph at the door; he had not recognized him. But the boy broke away from him and hurried down the central aisle to the railing of the bar. In the struggle with the officer he had lost his hat, and his hair was tumbled over his forehead. His face was grimy and streaked with perspiration; his clothes were torn and dusty, and in his hand he still carried his shoes and stockings.

"Mr. Goodlaw!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper as he hastened across the bar, "Mr. Goodlaw, wait a minute! I ain't Robert Burnham's son! I didn't know it till yestaday; but I ain't—I ain't his son!"

The boy dropped, panting, into a chair. Goodlaw looked down on him in astonishment. Old Simon clutched his cane and leaned forward with his eyes flashing fire. Mrs. Burnham, her face pale with surprise and compassion, began to smooth back the hair from the lad's wet forehead. The people back in the court-room had risen to their feet, to look down into the bar, and the constables were trying to restore order.

It all took place in a minute.

Then Ralph began to talk again:—

"Rhymin' Joe said so; he said I was Simon Craft's grandson; he told—"

Sharpman interrupted him. "Come with me, Ralph," he said, "I want to speak with you a minute." He reached out his hand, as if to lead him away; but Goodlaw stepped between them, saying, sternly:—

"He shall not go! The boy shall tell his story unhampered; you shall not crowd it back down his throat in private!"

"I say the boy shall go," replied Sharpman, angrily. "He is my client, and I have a right to consult with him."

This was true. For a moment Goodlaw was at his wit's end. Then, a bright idea came to him.

"Ralph," he said, "take the witness-stand."

Sharpman saw that he was foiled.

He turned to the court, white with passion.

"I protest," he exclaimed, "against this proceeding! It is contrary to both law and courtesy. I demand the privilege of consulting with my client!"

"Counsel has a right to call the boy as a witness," said the judge, dispassionately, "and to put him on the stand at once. Let him be sworn."

Ralph pushed his way up to the witness-stand, and the officer administered the oath. He was a sorry-looking witness indeed.

At any other time or in any other place, his appearance would have been ludicrous. But now no one laughed. The people in the court-room began to whisper, "Hush!" fearing lest the noise of moving bodies might cause them to lose the boy's words.

To Goodlaw it was all a mystery. He did not know how to begin the examination. He started at a venture.

"Are you Robert Burnham's son?"

"No, sir," replied Ralph, firmly. "I ain't."

There was a buzz of excitement in the room. Old Simon sat staring at the boy incredulously. His anger had changed for the moment into wonder. He could not understand the cause of Ralph's action. Sharpman had not told him of the interview with Rhyming Joe—he had not thought it advisable.

"Who are you, then?" inquired Goodlaw.

"I'm Simon Craft's grandson." The excitement in the room ran higher. Craft raised himself on his cane to lean toward Sharpman. "He lies!" whispered the old man, hoarsely; "the boy lies!"

Sharpman paid no attention to him.

"When did you first learn that you are Mr. Craft's grandson?" continued the counsel for the defence.

"Last night," responded Ralph.

"Where?"

"At Mr. Sharpman's office."

The blood rushed suddenly into Sharpman's face. He understood it all now; Ralph had overheard.

"Who told you?" asked Goodlaw.

"No one told me, I heard Rhymin' Joe—"

Sharpman interrupted him.

"I don't know," he said, "if the court please, what this boy is trying to tell nor what wild idea has found lodgement in his brain; but I certainly object to the introduction of such hearsay evidence as counsel seems trying to bring out. Let us at least know whether the responsible plaintiff in this case was present or was a party to this alleged conversation."

"Was Mr. Craft present?" asked Goodlaw of the witness.

"No, sir; I guess not, I didn't hear 'im, any way."

"Did you see him?"

"No, sir; I didn't see 'im. I didn't see either of 'em."

"Where were you?"

"In the room nex' to the street."

"Where did this conversation take place?"

"In the back room."

"Was the door open?"

"Just a little."

"Who were in the back room?"

"Mr. Sharpman an' Rhymin' Joe."

"Who is Rhyming Joe?"

"He's a man I used to know in Philadelphy."

"When you lived with Craft?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was his business?"

"I don't know as anything. He used to bring things to the house sometimes, watches an' things."

"How long have you known Rhyming Joe?"

"Ever since I can remember."

"Was he at Craft's house frequently?"

"Yes, sir; most all the time."

An idea of the true situation of affairs was dawning upon Goodlaw's mind. That Ralph had overheard Rhyming Joe say to Sharpman that the boy was Simon Craft's grandson was evident. But how to get that fact before the jury in the face of the rules of evidence—that was the question. It seemed to him that there should be some way to do it, and he kept on with the examination in order to gain time for thought and to lead up to the point.

"Did Mr. Sharpman know that you were in his office when this conversation took place?"

"No, sir; I guess not."

"Did Rhyming Joe know you were there?"

"No, sir; I don't believe he did."

"From the conversation overheard by you, have you reason to believe that Rhyming Joe is acquainted with the facts relating to your parentage?"

"Yes, sir; he must know."

"And, from hearing that conversation, did you become convinced that you are Simon Craft's grandson and not Robert Burnham's son?"

"Yes, sir, I did. Rhymin' Joe said so, an' he knows."

"Did you see Rhyming Joe last night?"

"No, sir. Only as he passed by me in the dark."

"Have you seen him to-day?"

"No, sir; he promised to go away this mornin'."

"To whom did he make that promise?"

Sharpman was on his feet in an instant, calling on Ralph to stop, and appealing to the court to have the counsel and witness restricted to a line of evidence that was legal and proper. He saw open before him the pit of bribery, and this fearless boy was pushing him dangerously close to the brink of it.

The judge admonished the defendant's attorney to hold the witness within proper bounds and to proceed with the examination.

In the meantime, Goodlaw had been thinking. He felt that it was of the highest importance that this occurrence in Sharpman's office should be made known to the court and the jury, and that without delay. There was but one theory, however, on which he could hope to introduce evidence of all that had taken place there, and he feared that that was not a sound one. But he determined to put on a bold face and make the effort.

"Ralph," he said, calmly, "you may go on now and give the entire conversation as you heard it last night between Mr. Sharpman and Rhyming Joe."

The very boldness of the question brought a smile to Sharpman's face as he arose and objected to the legality of the evidence asked for.

"We contend," said Goodlaw, in support of his offer, "that neither the trustee-plaintiff nor his attorney are persons whom the law recognizes as having any vital interest in this suit. The witness on the stand is the real plaintiff here, his are the interests that are at stake, and if he chooses to give evidence adverse to those interests, evidence relevant to the matter at issue, although it may be hearsay evidence, he has a perfect right to do so. His privilege as a witness is as high as that of any other plaintiff."

But Sharpman was on the alert. He arose to reply.

"Counsel forgets," he said, "or else is ignorant of the fact, that the very object of the appointment of a guardian is because the law considers that a minor is incapable of acting for himself. He has no discretionary power in connection with his estate. He has no more right to go on the witness-stand and give voluntary hearsay evidence which shall be adverse to his own interests than he has to give away any part of his estate which may be under the control of his trustee. A guardian who will allow him to do either of these things without objection will be liable for damages at the hands of his ward when that ward shall have reached his majority. We insist on the rejection of the offer."

The judge sat for a minute in silence, as if weighing the matter carefully. Finally he said:—

"We do not think the testimony is competent, Mr. Goodlaw. Although the point is a new one to us, we are inclined to look upon the law of the case as Mr. Sharpman looks on it. We shall be obliged to refuse your offer. We will seal you a bill of exceptions."

Goodlaw had hardly dared to expect anything else. There was nothing for him to do but to acquiesce in the ruling of the court.

Ralph turned to face him with a question on his lips.

"Mr. Goodlaw," he said, "ain't they goin' to let me tell what I heard
Rhymin' Joe say?"

"I am afraid not, Ralph; the court has ruled that conversation out."

"But they won't never know the right of it unless I tell that. I've got to tell it; that's what I come here for."

The judge turned to the witness and spoke to him, not unkindly:—

"Ralph, suppose you refrain from interrogating your counsel, and let him ask questions of you; that is the way we do here."

"Yes, sir, I will," said the boy, innocently, "only it seems too bad 'at I can't tell what Rhymin' Joe said."

The lawyers in the bar were smiling, Sharpman had recovered his apparent good-nature, and Goodlaw began again to interrogate the witness.

"Are you aware, Ralph," he asked, "that your testimony here to-day may have the effect of excluding you from all rights in the estate of Robert Burnham?"

"Yes, sir, I know it."

"And do you know that you are probably denying yourself the right to bear one of the most honored names, and to live in one of the most beautiful homes in this community?"

"Yes, sir, I know it all. I wouldn't mind all that so much though if it wasn't for my mother. I've got to give her up now, that's the worst of it; I don't know how I'm goin' to stan' that."

Mrs. Burnham, sitting by her counsel, bent her head above the table and wept silently.

"Was your decision to disclose your knowledge reached with a fair understanding of the probable result of such a disclosure?"

"Yes, sir, it was. I knew what the end of it'd be, an' I had a pirty hard time to bring myself to it, but I done it, an' I'm glad now 'at I did."

"Did you reach this decision alone or did some one help you to it?"

"Well, I'll tell you how that was. All't I decided in the first place was to tell Uncle Billy,—he's the man't I live with. So I told him, an' he said I ought to tell Mrs. Burnham right away. But she wasn't home when I got to her house, so I started right down here; an' they was an accident up on the road, an' the train couldn't go no further, an' so I walked in—I was afraid I wouldn't get here in time 'less I did."

"Your long walk accounts for your dusty and shoeless condition, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; it was pirty dusty an' hot, an' I had to walk a good ways, an' my shoes hurt me so't I had to take 'em off, an' I didn't have time to put 'em on again after I got here. Besides," continued the boy, looking down apologetically at his bruised and dusty feet, "I hurt my feet a-knockin' 'em against the stones when I was a-runnin', an' they've got swelled up so 'at I don't believe I could git my shoes on now, any way."

Many people in the room besides Mrs. Burnham had tears in their eyes at the conclusion of this simple statement.

Then Ralph grew white about the lips and looked around him uneasily. The judge saw that the lad was faint, and ordered a tipstaff to bring him a glass of water. Ralph drank the water and it refreshed him.

"You may cross-examine the witness," said Goodlaw to the plaintiff's attorney.

Sharpman hardly knew how to begin. But he felt that he must make an effort to break in some way the force of Ralph's testimony. He knew that from a strictly legal point of view, the evidence was of little value, but he feared that the boy's apparent honesty, coupled with his dramatic entrance, would create an impression on the minds of the jury which might carry them to a disastrous verdict. He leaned back in his chair with an assumed calmness, placed the tips of his fingers against each other, and cast his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Ralph," he said, "you considered up to yesterday that Mr. Craft and I were acting in your interest in this case, did you not?"

"Yes, sir; I thought so."

"And you have consulted with us and followed our advice until yesterday, have you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And last night you came to the conclusion that we were deceiving you?"

"Yes, sir; I did."

"Have you any reason for this opinion aside from the conversation you allege that you heard?"

"I don't know as I have."

"At what hour did you reach my office last evening?"

"I don't know, I guess it must 'a' been after eight o'clock."

"Was it dark?"

"It was jest dark."

"Was there a light in the office when you came in?"

"They was in the back room where you an' Rhymin' Joe were."

"Did you think that I knew when you came into the office?"

"I don't believe you did."

"Why did you not make your presence known?"

"Well, I—I—"

"Come, out with it! If you had any reason for playing the spy, let's hear what it was."

"I didn't play the spy. I didn't think o' bein' mean that way, but when I heard Rhymin' Joe tell you 'at I wasn't Robert Burnham's son, I was so s'prised, an' scart-like 'at I couldn't speak."

This was a little more than Sharpman wanted, but he kept on:—

"How long were you under the control of this spirit of muteness?"

"Sir?"

"How long was it before the power to speak returned to you?"

"Oh! not till Rhymin' Joe went out, I guess. I felt so bad I didn't want to speak to anybody."

"Did you see this person whom you call Rhyming Joe?"

"Only in the dark."

"Not so as to recognize him by sight?"

"No, sir."

"How did you know it was he?"

"By the way he talked."

"How long is it since you have been accustomed to hearing him talk?"

"About three years."

"Did you see me last night?"

"I caught a glimpse of you jest once."

"When?"

"When you went across the room an' gave Rhymin' Joe the money."

Sharpman flushed angrily. He felt that he was treading on dangerous ground in this line of examination. He went on more cautiously.

"At what time did you leave my office last night?"

"Right after Rhymin' Joe did. I went out to find him."

"Then you went away without letting me know of your presence there, did you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you find this Rhyming Joe?"

"No, sir, I couldn't find 'im."

"Now, Ralph, when you left me at the Scranton station on Saturday night, did you go straight home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you see any one to talk with except Bachelor Billy that night after you left me?"

"No, sir."

"Where did you go on Sunday morning?"

"Uncle Billy an' me went down to the chapel to meetin'."

"From there where did you go?"

"Back home."

"And had your dinner?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you do after that?"

"Me an' Uncle Billy went up to the breaker."

"What breaker?"

"Burnham Breaker."

"Why did you go there?"

"Jest for a walk, an' to see how it looked."

"How long did you stay there?"

"Oh, we hadn't been there more'n fifteen or twenty minutes 'fore Mrs.
Burnham's man came for me an' took me to her house."

Sharpman straightened up in his chair. His drag-net had brought up something at last. It might be of value to him and it might not be.

"Ah!" he said, "so you spent a portion of yesterday afternoon at Mrs.
Burnham's house, did you?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"How long did you stay there?"

"Oh! I shouldn't wonder if it was two or three hours."

"Did you see Mrs. Burnham alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have a long talk together?"

"Yes, sir, a very nice long talk."

Sharpman thought that if he could only lead the jury, by inference, to the presumption that what had taken place to-day was understood between Ralph and Mrs. Burnham yesterday it would be a strong point, but he knew that he must go cautiously.

"She was very kind to you, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir; she was lovely. I never had so good a time before in all my life."

"You took dinner with her, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have a good dinner?"

"It was splendid."

"Did you eat a good deal?"

"Yes, sir, I think I eat a great deal."

"Had a good many things that were new to you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir, quite a good many."

"Did you think you would like to go there to live?"

"Oh, yes! I did. It's beautiful there, it's very beautiful. You don't know how lovely it is till you get there. I couldn't help bein' happy in a home like that, an' they couldn't be no nicer mother'n Mrs. Burnham is, nor no pirtier little sister. An' everybody was jest as good to me there! Why, you don't know what a—"

The glow suddenly left the boy's face, and the rapture fled from his eyes. In the enthusiasm of his description he had forgotten, for the moment, that it was not all to be his, and when the memory of his loss came back to him, it was like a plunge into outer darkness. He stopped so unexpectedly, and in such apparent mental distress that people stared at him in astonishment, wondering what had happened.

After a moment of silence he spoke again: "But it ain't mine any longer; I can't have any of it now; I've got no right to go there at all any more." The sadness in his broken voice was pitiful. Those who were looking on him saw his under lip tremble and his eyes fill with tears. But it was only for a moment. Then he drew himself up until he sat rigidly in his chair, his little hands were tightly clenched, his lips were set in desperate firmness, every muscle of his face grew tense and hard with sudden resolution. It was a magnificently successful effort of the will to hold back almost overpowering emotion, and to keep both mind and body strong and steady for any ordeal through which he might have yet to pass.

It came upon those who saw it like an electric flash, and in another moment the crowded room was ringing with applause.