"
"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.
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