kids” and “big fellers”; well-dressed “lads”
and ragged “little shavers”; burglars who have
entered a store, and burglars who have “robbed
back” pigeons; thieves who have stolen bicycles,
and thieves who have “ swiped” papers; “toughs”
who have “sassed” a cop or stoned a conductor,
and boys who have talked bad language to little
girls, or who “hate their father,” or who have
been backward at school and played hookey
because the teacher doesn’t like them. It isn’t
generally known, and the Judge rarely tells just
what a boy has done; the deed doesn’t matter,
you know, only the boy, and all boys look pretty
much alike to the Judge and to the boys. So
they all come together there, except that boys
who work, and newsboys, when there s an extra
out, are excused to come at another time. But
nine o’clock Saturday morning finds most of the
“fellers” in their seats, looking as clean as pos-
sible, and happy.
The Judge comes in and, passing the bench, which looms up empty and useless behind him, he takes his place, leaning against the clerk s
table or sitting on a camp-chair.
“Boys,” he begins, “last time I told you about
Kid Dawson and some other boys who used to be with us here and who ‘made good.’ To-day I’ve got a letter from the Kid. He’s in Oregon,
