“I do not think he is naturally bad,” answered the judge, who sat in a big chair back of a high desk.  “From what I can learn, he has been under William Leavitt’s control since they were children.  Shorty tried to get away from his brother twice, but each time William found and punished him so brutally that the boy was afraid to venture again.  There are scars on Shorty’s feet made by a hot iron the last time he tried to escape from his brother.  Shorty is not quite nineteen yet.  That is how he comes under the Juvenile Court.”

“Judge,” exclaimed the captain, his face alight with eager pleading, “you know there’s lots of people that folks call bad, who would be decent if they had a chance.  Can’t you give Shorty a chance to show that he wants to make good?  Send him some place where his brother can’t find him?”

“Your Honor,” the artist spoke now, “if there is any way to arrange it, I would like to take the lad up to Roseneath and we will try to help him make good in our Land of Make-Believe, as we call our home.”

Jan did not understand what they were saying, but he knew it had something to do with Shorty and that the captain was talking very earnestly, so the dog edged between his two friends and stood watching the man at the high desk, for all in the room were looking at him.  This man was very quiet, and seemed to be thinking, then he looked up and said, “Bring Shorty in here.”

A few minutes passed in silence, then the door swung open and Shorty shuffled through it.  He blinked in the bright sunlight and ducked his head as though he were afraid to look up at them all.  Jan moved quickly and pushed his nose into Shorty’s hand.  The face above him lighted with a sudden, winning smile.  The judge watched them both but did not speak.  Then Shorty remembered where he was and raised his head to face the man on the high platform.  That man was looking with very kindly eyes at the lad and the dog.

“Shorty,” the judge spoke very plainly, “if I give you two years’ suspended sentence and let you go with Mr. Melville to live on his ranch, will you try to make good?”

Shorty only stared stupidly.  The judge repeated his words more slowly and added, “We will not let it be known where you are, so you need have no fear of William.  I want to know if you will give me your solemn promise—­your word of honor—­to do your very best?”

Shorty’s face twitched, his eyes blinked fast, his hands reached out as if he were feeling for some other hand to grasp.  The hands hesitated, groped, then one hand moved upward across his face as though to brush something away that kept him from seeing plainly.  Those in the room watched but made no sound.

“Do you mean it, Judge?” the lad’s voice was low and husky, but there was a tone of pleading in it.  “You ain’t just fooling, are you, Judge?”

“No,” the judge spoke very firmly, “I’m not fooling, Shorty.  You are going to get your chance.”