“Say, kids,” he said, and, as they looked up, he asked: “how many of you fellers have swiped things ? ”
Every boy’s hand shot up in the air. The Judge had proved his point, but he had proved also another thing. Those boys knew he was the Judge, yet they were not afraid to tell the truth. Or, to state the situation more completely: those boys knew he was the Judge and therefore they were not afraid to tell him the truth. Not all these boys had been in his Court; in fact, only one or two had; but that didn’t matter. All the boys of Denver know of the Judge, and what they know of him is that though he represents the Law and the State, he is “all right.”
One afternoon, a boy of about ten years stuck his head into the door of the Judge’s private room.
“Is the Judge in?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the Judge.
“Is this him?” the boy asked.
“Yes, my boy. I’m the Judge.”
“Well, I’m Johnny Rosenbaum, and I came down here to see you.”
“Yes ? I’m glad you’ve come, John, but what did you come for ? ”
“Well,” he said, “Joe Rosenthal, he used to come down here, and he ‘swiped’ thing
