“WHAT do you think was the counterfeiter’s excuse for running away?” asked Sam Wardwell of Canning Forbes, on meeting him at the Post-office, to which both boys had been sent by their parents.

“I give it up,” said Canning, who had not the slightest taste for guessing.

“He said he would have come back and given himself up after court had met and adjourned, but he didn’t want to be tried now.”

“He wanted to wait for some new evidence in his defence, perhaps,” suggested Canning.

“New grandfather!” ejaculated Sam, very contemptuously. “He wanted to stay in jail here, doing nothing, for the next six months, rather than go to the Penitentiary and work hard. That’s what my father says.”

“Perhaps your father is right,” said Canning; “but what does he think of Paul?”

“What does he think?” answered Sam; “why, just what everybody else thinks; he thinks Paul is the greatest boy that ever was, and he says he wishes I would be just like him.”

“Well, why don’t you?” asked Canning.

“How can I?” said Sam, in an aggrieved tone. “I can’t do just as I please, as Paul can, and I haven’t got any great mystery to keep me up, as everybody knows Paul has.”

“Didn’t you ever have a great mystery?” asked Canning.

“Never but once,” said Sam; “that was when I hooked a big package of loaf-sugar out of father’s store, and had to keep finding new places to hide it in until it was eaten up.”

“I suppose that mystery helped keep you up?” suggested Canning.

“Well, you see——Oh, look! there comes father; I suppose he’s wondering why I don’t bring his letters. Good-bye;” and Sam got away from that very provoking question as fast as possible.

As for the other boys, they simply sat on the sidewalk opposite old Mrs. Bartle’s, and worshipped the house from which their hero had not been successfully coaxed to come out. In spite of Paul’s caution to Benny, and the promises that were made in return, the deputy had talked so enthusiastically about Paul to all the men he met, that the story sped about town that Paul had done as much toward recapturing the prisoner as the officer had. This story might have been spoiled had Benny acted according to the spirit of his promise, but the little fellow had been so elated by the looks that people gave him, as he marched with Paul and the counterfeiter through the street, that he could not bear to deliberately rob himself of his fame, as of course he would do as soon as Paul’s story had been told. So Benny refused to be seen; he went to bed very early, and before breakfast he had hidden himself in the unused attic of his mother’s cottage, where he nursed his glory until he felt that he was simply starving for something to eat.

And all this while his fictitious valor was nowhere in the eyes of the populace, for Mr. Morton himself had gone out immediately after breakfast, and had himself given Paul’s version of the affair to every one, besides giving Benny a fair share of the credit for the tender-heartedness displayed by the two boys toward the captive, so that when Benny finally entered the world again he found he had lost some hours of praise to which he was honestly entitled. As for Paul, the teacher begged every one to say nothing at all to him about it. The boy was somewhat peculiar, he said; the affair had made a very painful impression upon him, and any one who really admired him could best prove it by treating him just as before, and not reminding him in any way of Laketon’s most famous day.

Mr. Morton had not yet decided whether to open his school again, and the boys, although they would have been sorry to have him go away from Laketon, hoped he would not decide before court opened, for now that the counterfeiter had been mixed up in some way with two of their own number, the boys with one accord determined that they would have to attend the trial; indeed, it seemed to some of them that the trial could not go on without them, for did they not know the two boys who had helped bring the prisoner back from the woods? They thought they did.

When the day for the trial came, and the sheriff opened the court-room, the doors of which had been kept locked because of the immense crowd that threatened to fill the house in advance of the hour for the session, he was surprised to find seventeen boys in the front seats of the gallery. On questioning them, he learned that most of them had entered through a window before sunrise, and that two had slept in the gallery all night. He was about to remove the entire party, but the boys begged so hard to be allowed to remain, and they reminded him so earnestly that they all were particular friends of Paul, that the sheriff, who once had been a boy himself, relented, and let them remain.

It was about six in the afternoon, according to the boys, but only a quarter before ten by the court-house clock, when the front doors were opened and the crowd poured in. Within the next five minutes any boy in that front gallery row could have sold his seat for a dollar, but not a boy flinched from what he considered a public duty, although every one knew just what to do with a dollar if he could get it. Soon the lawyers flocked in by the judge’s door, and grouped themselves about the table inside the rail, and at five minutes before ten his honor the judge entered and took his seat. Then the sheriff allowed Mr. Morton and Paul to enter by the judge’s door, because they were unable to get through the crowd in front. At sight of Paul the whole front row of the gallery burst into a storm of hand-clapping.

The judge rapped vigorously with his little mallet, and exclaimed, “Mr. Sheriff, preserve order. The court is now open.”

The sheriff, first giving chairs in the lawyers’ circle to Paul and the teacher, because there were no other seats vacant, went down in front of the gallery, and shouted to the boys that if they made any more disturbance he would throw them all out of the window and break their heads on the pavement below.

No lighter threat would have been of any avail, for a more restless set of boys than they were during the next half-hour never was seen. It seemed to them that the trial never would begin; the lawyers talked to the judge about all sorts of things, and the judge looked over papers as leisurely as if time were eternity; but finally his honor said,

“Mr. Sheriff, bring in John Doe.”

Every one in the front row of the gallery stood up, two or three minutes later, as Ned Johnston, who sat where he could look through the open door by which the judge had entered, signalled that the prisoner was coming. Many other people stood up when the sheriff and the prisoner entered, for all were curious to have a good look at the man whom but few of them had seen. The sheriff placed John Doe in the prisoners’ box, where, to the great disgust of the boys, only the back of a head and two shoulders could be seen from the gallery. His honor nodded at the clerk, and the clerk arose, cleared his throat, and said,

“John Doe, stand up.”

The prisoner obeyed; and as his head was slightly turned, so as to face the clerk, the boys had a fair view of it. It did not seem a bad face; indeed, it was rather handsome and pleasing, although there was a steady twitching of the lips that prevented its looking exactly the same from first to last.

“John Doe,” said the clerk, turning over some of the sheets of a very bulky document he held in his hand, “a Grand-jury appointed by this Court has found a true bill of indictment against you for passing counterfeit money, to wit, a five-dollar note purporting to have been issued by the Founders’ National Bank of Mechanics’ Valley, State of Pennsylvania, the same note having been offered in payment for goods purchased from Samuel Wardwell, a merchant doing business in this town of Laketon, and for passing similar bills upon other persons herein resident. Are you guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty!” answered the prisoner.

A sensation ran through the house, and at least half a dozen of the fifty or more citizens who had hoped to be drawn on the jury whispered to their neighbors that it was a shameful trick to appeal to the judge’s sympathy, and get off with a light sentence; but they hoped that his honor would not be taken in by any such hypocritical nonsense.

“John Doe,” said his honor, solemnly, “I have been informed by an old acquaintance of yours of your entire history. You are well born and well bred; you had promising prospects in life, and a family that you should have been proud of. But you gambled; you fell from bad to worse; and a bullet aimed at you by an officer of the law, in the discharge of his duty, struck and killed your loving, suffering wife. Such of your family as remains to you would honor any one, even the highest man in the land, and I am assured that you are sincerely desirous of forsaking evil courses and devoting your life to this—family. Old friends, classmates of yours, who are held in high respect wherever they are known, are ready and willing to assist you to regain your lost manhood; so, in consideration of your plea, your professions of penitence, and the responsibilities which your misdeeds have increased instead of lessened, I sentence you to confinement in the county jail for the shortest period allowed by the law covering your offence, to wit, six months. Sheriff, remove the prisoner.”

The prisoner bowed to the judge, and then looked toward Mr. Morton and Paul. He tried hard to preserve his composure as the sheriff led him through the lawyers’ circle and toward the judge’s door, but somehow his eyes filled with tears. Perhaps this was the reason that Paul, in spite of Mr. Morton’s hand on his arm, sprung from his chair, threw his arms around the prisoner’s neck, and exclaimed,

“Father!”