“Judge,” he said, “you know John Handing, don’t you?”
The Judge hesitated.
“You know, Judge; the kid th’ fellers call Fatty Felix.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Judge.
“Well,” said Billy, “he’s my chum. Fatty is. Now, here’s my shine-box. You give that to Fatty, and you gimme them papers. I’ll show ’em. You trust me, and I’ll stay wit’ ye, Judge, and we’ll fool ’em, all right.”
And off went Billy B., twelve years old, out of the court-room, down through the streets — the streets he loved —to the car; then over three railroads to the little town of Golden where, asking his way, he climbed the long, lonely hill road to the industrial school — just to show a doubting world that “it” works.
Was the world convinced ? No. The grown- ups marvelled, and even the boys sneered. The Judge “fixed” the boys. He heard that they called Billy B. a “chump” up at Golden, so he went up there, and he told the story in a speech which made Billy B.’s face shine like his old shine-box. That speech, repeated again and again, at Golden and in Denver and all over the State, has made it an honour to go alone to Golden: a test of pluck, loyalty, and self-control. And,
