A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS.

Every one expected that the jury would come into court with a verdict at the opening of the session on Tuesday morning. There was much difference of opinion, however, as to what that verdict would be.

But the morning hours went by and the jury still remained in their room. The constable who watched at the door shook his head and smiled when asked about the probability of an early agreement. No one seemed to know just how the jury stood.

Sharpman and his client had been greatly disheartened on Monday night, and had confessed as much to each other; but the longer the jury remained out the more hope they gathered. It was apparent that the verdict would not be rendered under the impulses of the moment; and that the jury were applying the principles of cold law and stern logic to the case, there seemed to be little doubt.

But, as a matter of fact, the jury were doing no such thing.

They believed, to a man, that Ralph had told the truth, and that such an event as he had described had actually taken place in Sharpman's office; and, notwithstanding the judge's charge, they were trying to harmonize Ralph's statement with the evidence of the witnesses who had corroborated Simon Craft's story. This led them into so many difficulties that they finally abandoned the effort, and the questions before them were gradually reduced to just one. That question was not whether Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham; but it was: which would be better for the boy, to decide in favor of the plaintiff or of the defendant. If they found for the plaintiff, they would throw the boy's fortune into the hands of Craft and Sharpman, where they feared the greater part of it would finally remain. If they found for the defendant, they would practically consign the lad to a life of homelessness and toil. It was to discuss and settle this question, therefore, that the jury remained locked up in their room through so many hours.

The day wore on and no verdict was rendered. Sharpman's spirits continued to rise, and Goodlaw feared that his case was lost.

At four o'clock the jury sent in word that they had agreed, and a few minutes later they filed into the court-room. When their verdict had been inspected by the judge it was given to the prothonotary to read.

He faced the jury, saying:--

"Gentlemen of the jury, listen to your verdict as the court has it recorded. In the case wherein Simon Craft, guardian of the estate of Ralph Burnham, a minor, is plaintiff, and Margaret Burnham, administrator of the estate of Robert Burnham, deceased, is defendant, you say you find for the defendant, and that the boy Ralph is _not_ the son of Robert Burnham. So say you all?"

The jury nodded a.s.sent, and the verdict was filed. That settled it.

Craft and Sharpman were beaten.

It was very strange that a solid truth, backed up by abundant and irreproachable evidence, presented under the strict rules of law and the solemn sanction of an oath, should be upset and shattered by a flimsy falsehood told by an unknown adventurer, heard unawares by a listening child, and denied a proper entrance into court. It was strange but it was very true. Yet in that ruin was involved one of the boldest schemes for legal plunder that was ever carried into the courts of Luzerne County.

Sharpman felt that a fortune had slipped from his grasp, and that he had lost it by reason of his own credulity and fear. He saw now the mistake he had made in not defying Rhyming Joe. He knew now that the fellow never would have dared to appear in court as a witness. He felt that he had not only lost his money, but that he had come dangerously near to losing what character he had, also. He knew that it was all due to his own fault, and he was humiliated and angry with himself, and bitter toward every one who had sided with the defendant.

But if Sharpman's disappointment was great, that of his client was tenfold greater.

Simon Craft was in a most unenviable mood. At times, indeed, he grew fairly desperate. The golden bubble that he had been chasing for eight years had burst and vanished. He had told the truth, he had been honest in his statements, he had sought to do the boy and the boy's mother a great favor, and they had turned against him, and the verdict of the jury had placed upon him the stigma of perjury. This was the burden of his complaint. But aside from this he was filled with bitter regret. If he had only closed his bargain with Robert Burnham on the day it had been made! If he had only made his proposition to Mrs.

Burnham as he had intended doing, instead of going into this wild scheme with this visionary lawyer! This was his silent sorrow. His misery was deep and apparent. He had grown to be ten years older in a day. This misfortune, he said, bitterly, was the result of trying to be honest and to do good. This was the reward of virtue, these the wages of charity.

Tired, at last, of railing at abstract principles of right, he turned his attention to those who had been instrumental in his downfall. The judge, the jury, and the attorney for the defence, all came in for a share of his malignant hatred and abuse. For Mrs. Burnham he had only silent contempt. Her honest desire to have right done had been too apparent from the start. The only fault he had to find with her was that she did not come to his rescue when the tide was turning against him. But against Ralph the old man's wrath and indignation were intense.

Had he not saved the child from death? Had he not fed and clothed and cared for him during five years? Had he not rescued him from oblivion, and made every effort to endow him with wealth and position and an honored name? And then, to think that in the very moment when these efforts were about to meet with just success, this boy had turned against him, and brought ruin and disgrace upon him. Oh, it was too much, too much!

If he could only have the lad in his possession for a week, he thought, for a day, for an hour even, he would teach him the cost of turning traitor to his friends. Oh, he would teach him!

Then it occurred to him that perhaps he might get possession of the boy, and permanent possession at that. Had not Ralph sworn that he was Simon Craft's grandson? Had not the jury accepted Ralph's testimony as true? And had not the court ordered judgment to be entered on the jury's verdict? Well, if the court had declared the boy to be his grandson, he was ent.i.tled to him, was he not? If the boy was able to earn anything, he was ent.i.tled to his earnings, was he not? If he was the child's grandfather, then he had authority to take him, to govern him, to punish him for disobedience--was not that true?

Old Simon rose from his chair and began to walk up and down the room, hammering his cane upon the floor at every step.

The idea was a good one, a very good one, and he resolved to act upon it without delay. He would go the very next day and get the boy and take him to Philadelphia.

But suppose Ralph should refuse to go, and suppose Bachelor Billy, with his strong arms, should stand by to protect the lad from force, what then? Well, there was a law to meet just such a case as that. He knew of an instance where a child had been taken by its grandfather by virtue of a writ of _habeas corpus_.

He would get such a writ, the sheriff should go with him, they would bring Ralph to court again; and since the law had declared the boy to be Simon Craft's grandson, the law could do nothing else than to place him in Simon Craft's custody. Then the old man went to bed, thinking that in the morning he would get Sharpman to prepare for him the papers that would be necessary to carry his plan into execution.

He derived much pleasure from his dreams that night, for he dreamed of torturing poor Ralph to his heart's content.

When Bachelor Billy left the court-room that Monday evening with his unconscious burden in his arms, he remained only long enough in the court-house square to revive the boy, then he took him to the railway station, and they went together, by the earliest train, to Scranton.

The next morning Ralph felt very weak and miserable, and did not leave the house; and Bachelor Billy came home at noon to see him and to learn what news, if any, had been received from Wilkesbarre. Both he and Ralph expected that a verdict would be rendered for the defendant, in accordance with Ralph's testimony, and neither of them were surprised, therefore, when Andy Gilgallon came up from the city after supper and informed them that the jury had so found. That settled the matter, at any rate. It was a relief to Ralph to know that it was at an end; that he was through with courts and lawyers and judges and juries, and that there need be no further effort on his part to escape from unmerited fortune. The tumult that had raged in his mind through many hours was at last stilled, and that night he slept. He wanted to go back the next morning to his work at the breaker, but Bachelor Billy would not allow him to do so. He still looked very pale and weak, and the anxious man resolved to come home at noon again that day to see to the lad's health.

Indeed, as the morning wore on, Ralph acknowledged to himself that he did not feel so well. His head was very heavy, and there was a bruised feeling over the entire surface of his body. It was a dull day, too; it rained a little now and then, and was cloudy all the morning. He sat indoors the most of the time, reading a little, sleeping a little, and thinking a great deal. The sense of his loss was coming back upon him very strongly. It was not so much the loss of wealth, or of name, or of the power to do other and better things than he had ever done before that grieved him now. But it was that the dear and gentle lady who was to have been his mother, who had verily been a mother to him for one sweet day, was a mother to him no longer. To feel that he was nothing to her now, no more, indeed, than any other ragged, dust-black boy in Burnham Breaker, this was what brought pain and sorrow to his heart, and made the hot tears come into his eyes in spite of his determined effort to hold them back.

He was sitting in his accustomed chair, facing the dying embers of a little wood fire that he had built, for the morning was a chilly one.

Behind him the door was opened and some one entered the room from the street. He thought it was Bachelor Billy, just come from work, and he straightened up in his chair and tried to wipe away the traces of tears from his face before he should turn to give him greeting.

"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said; "ain't you home early?"

He was still rubbing industriously at his eyes. Receiving no answer he looked around.

It was not Uncle Billy. It was Simon Craft.

Ralph uttered a cry of surprise and terror, and retreated into a corner of the room. Old Simon, looking at him maliciously from under his bushy brows, gradually extended his thin lips into a wicked smile.

"What!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that you are afraid of your affectionate old grandfather? Why, I thought you desired nothing so much as to go and live with him and be his pet."

The boy's worst fears were realized. Old Simon had come for him.

"I won't go back with you!" he cried. "I won't! I won't!" Then, changing his tone to one of appealing, he continued: "You didn't come for me, did you, gran'pa? you won't make me go back with you, will you?"

"I'm afraid I can't do without you any longer," said Craft, coming nearer and looking Ralph over carefully. "I'm getting old and sick, and your presence will be a great comfort to me in my declining years.

Besides, my affection for you is so great that I feel that I couldn't do without you; oh, I couldn't, I couldn't possibly!" And the old man actually chuckled himself into a fit of coughing at his grim sarcasm.

"But I don't want to go," persisted the boy. "I'm very happy here.

Uncle Billy's very good to me, an' I'd ruther stay, a good deal ruther."

At the mention of Uncle Billy's name Old Simon's smile vanished and he advanced threateningly toward the boy, striking his cane repeatedly on the floor.

"It don't matter what you want," he said, harshly; "you were crazy to be my grandson; now the law says you are, and the law gives me the right to take you and do what I choose with you. Oh, you've got to go!

so get your hat and come along, and don't let's have any more nonsense about it!"

"Gran'pa--Gran'pa Simon!" exclaimed the terrified boy, shrinking still farther away, "I can't go back to Philadelphy, I can't! I couldn't live, I'd die if I went back there! I'd--"

Craft interrupted him: "Well, if you do die, it won't be because you're killed with kindness, I warrant you. You've cheated me out of a living and yourself out of a fortune; you've made your own bed, now you've got to lie in it. Come on, I say! get your hat and come along!"

The old man was working himself into a pa.s.sion. There was danger in his eyes. Ralph knew it, too, but the thought of going back to live with Simon Craft was such a dreadful one to him that he could not refrain from further pleading.

"I know I belong to you, Gran'pa Simon," he said, "an' I know I've got to mind you; but please don't make me go back to live with you; please don't! I'll do anything else in the world you want me to; I'll give you ev'ry dollar I earn if you'll let me stay here, ev'ry dollar; an'

I'll work hard, too, ev'ry day. I'll--I'll give you--I'll give you--

"Well, what'll you give me? Out with it!"

It was a desperate chance; it called for sacrifice, but Ralph felt that he would offer it gladly if he could thereby be saved.

"I'll give you," he said, "all the money I've got saved up."