"And at the magistrate's command,
And next undid the leathern band
That bound her tresses there,
And raised her felt hat from her head,
And down her slender form there spread
Black ringlets rich and rare."
Old Hurricane meanwhile dined at the public table at the Astor, and afterward went to his room to rest, smoke and ruminate. And he finished the evening by supping and retiring to bed.
In the morning, after an early breakfast, he wrote a dozen advertisements and called a cab and rode around to leave them with the various daily papers for immediate publication. Then, to lose no time, he rode up to the Recorder's office to set the police upon the search.
As he was about to enter the front portal he observed the doorway and passage blocked up with even a larger crowd than usual.
And seeing the cabman who had waited upon him the preceding day, he inquired of him: "What is the matter here?"
"Nothing, your honor, 'cept a boy tuk up for wearing girl's clothes, or a girl tuk up for wearing boy's, I dunno which," said the man, touching his hat.
"Let me pass, then; I must speak to the chief of police," said Old Hurricane, shoving his way into the Recorder's room.
"This is not the office of the chief, sir; you will find him on the other side of the hall," said a bystander.
But before Old Hurricane had gathered the sense of these words, a sight within the office drew his steps thither. Up before the Recorder stood a lad of about thirteen years, who, despite his smart, new suit of gray casinet, his long, rolling, black ringlets and his downcast and blushing face, Old Hurricane immediately recognized as his acquaintance, of the preceding day, the saucy young tatterdemalion.
Feeling sorry for the friendless boy, the old man impulsively went up to him and patted him on the shoulder, saying: "What! In trouble, my lad? Never mind; never look down! I'll warrant ye an honest lad from what I've seen myself. Come! come! pluck up a spirit! I'll see you through, my lad."
"'Lad!' Lord bless your soul, sir, he's no more a lad than you or I! The young rascal is a girl in boy's clothes, sir!" said the officer who had the culprit in custody.
"What--what--what!" exclaimed Old Hurricane, gazing in consternation from the young prisoner to the accuser; "what--what! my newsboy, my saucy little prince of patches, a girl in boy's clothes?"