McAllister and His Double

The Jailbird

His heart sank as he asked himself what life could hold for him. How often, sitting on his prison bed with his head in his hands, he had pictured joyously the present moment! Now he felt like a child who has lost its parent's hand in the passing throng.

There had been a day, the year before, when his old mother's letter had not come, and, instead, only a line of stereotyped consolation from the country pastor to the village ne'er-do-well. No one had seen him choke over his bowl of soup and bread, or noticed the tears that trickled down upon the shoe-leather in his hand. She had been the only one who had ever written to him. There was nothing now to take him back to the little cluster of white cottages among the hills where he was born.

As he stood there alone facing the world, he yearned to throw himself once more upon his cot and weep against its iron bars—for three years the only arms outstretched to comfort him.

II

The Judge concluded his charge with the usual, "I leave the case with you, gentlemen," and the jury, collecting their miscellaneous garments, slowly retired. Leary, the County Detective assigned to "Part One," pushed an indictment across the desk, whispering:

"Try him; he's a short one," for it was getting late, and the afternoon sun was already gilding the dingy cornices of the big court-room, now almost deserted save by a lounger or two half asleep on the benches.

"People against Graham," called Dockbridge, the youthful deputy assistant district attorney.

"Fill the box!" shouted the clerk. "James Graham to the bar!" and another dozen "good men and true" answered to their names and settled themselves comfortably in their places.

At the rear the door from the pen opened and the prisoner entered, escorted by an officer. He walked stolidly around the room, passed through the gate held open for him, and took his seat at the table reserved for the defendant and his attorney. There appeared, however, to be no lawyer to represent him.

"Have you counsel?" casually inquired the clerk.

"No," answered the prisoner.

"Mr. Crookshanks, please look after the rights of this defendant," directed the Judge.

The prisoner, a thick-set man of medium height, half rose from his seat, and, turning toward the weazened little lawyer, shook his head rather impatiently. It was obvious that they were not strangers. After a whispered conversation Crookshanks stepped forward and addressed the Court.

"The defendant declines counsel, and stands upon his constitutional right to defend himself," he said apologetically.

There was a slight lifting of heads among the jury, and a few sharp glances in the direction of the prisoner, which seemed in no wise to disconcert him.

"Very well, then; proceed," ordered the Court.

The prosecutor rapidly outlined his case—one of simple "larceny from the person." The People would show that the defendant had taken a wallet from the pocket of the complaining witness. He had been caught in flagrante delicto. There were several eye-witnesses. The case would occupy but a few moments, unless, to be sure, the prisoner had some witnesses. The young assistant, who seemed slightly nervous at the unusual prospect of conducting a trial against a lawyerless defendant (savoring as it did of a hand-to-hand combat in the days of trial by battle), started to comment upon the novelty of the situation, gave it up, and to cover his retreat called his first witness.

Dockbridge was very young indeed. He was undergoing the process of being "whipped into shape" by the Judge, a kind but unrelenting observer of all the technicalities of the criminal branch, and this was one of his first cases. He could work up a pretty fair argument in his office, but he now felt his inexperience and began to wish it was time to adjourn, or that his senior, "Colonel Bob," the stout Nestor of Part One, whose long practice made him ready for any emergency, would return. But "Colonel Bob" could have proved an excellent alibi at that moment, and the battle had to be fought out alone.

The prisoner, meanwhile, was sitting calm but vigilant, pen in hand. His face, square and strong, with firmly marked mouth and chin, showed no sign of emotion, but under their heavy brows his black eyes played uneasily between the Court and jury. Evidently not more than thirty years of age, his attitude and expression showed intelligence and alert capacity.

"Go on, Mr. District Attorney," again admonished the Judge; and Dockbridge, pulling himself together, commenced to examine the complainant.

The prisoner was now straining eye and ear to catch every look and word from the witness-stand. Hardly had the complainant opened his mouth before the defendant had objected to the answer, the objection had been sustained, and the reply stricken out. He continued to object from time to time, and his points were so well taken that he dominated not only the examination but the witness as well, and the jury presently found themselves listening to a cross-examination as skilfully conducted as if by a trained practitioner.

But, although the defendant showed himself a better lawyer than his adversary, it was apparent that his battle was a losing one. Point after point he contested stubbornly, yet the case loomed clear against him.

The People having "rested," the defendant announced that he had no witnesses, and would go to the jury on the evidence, or, rather "failure of evidence," as he put it, of the prosecution. It was done with great adroitness, and none of the jury perceived that, by refusing to accept counsel, he had made it impossible to take the stand in his own behalf, and had thus escaped the necessity of subjecting himself to cross-examination as to his past career.

If the spectators had expected a piteous appeal for mercy or a burst of prison rhetoric, they were disappointed. The prisoner summed his case up carefully, arguing that there was a reasonable doubt upon the evidence to which he was entitled; begged the jury not to condemn him merely because he appeared before them as one charged with a crime; appealed to them for justice; and at the close, for the first time forgetting the proprieties of the situation, exclaimed, "I did not do it, gentlemen! I did not do it! There is an absolute failure of proof! You cannot find that I took the purse from the old gentleman on such evidence! It is all a lie!"

It was his one false touch. To raise the issue of veracity is usually a mistake on the part of a defendant, and the defiant look in Graham's eyes might well have suggested conscious guilt.

As he paused for a moment after this concluding sentence, an Italian band came marching down Centre Street playing the dead march. Some patriot was being borne to his last sleep in an alien land. Outside the court-house it paused for a moment with one melancholy crash of funeral chords. It seemed a vibrant echo of the discord of his own fruitless life. At the same moment a ray from the red sun setting over the Tombs fell upon the prisoner's face.

Dockbridge summed the case up in the stock fashion, and then for half an hour the Judge addressed the jury in a calm and dispassionate analysis of the evidence, not hesitating to compare the abilities of the prosecutor and prisoner to the disadvantage of the former, saying in this respect: "Neither must you be influenced by any feeling of admiration at the capacity shown by this defendant to conduct his own case. If he has appeared more than a match for the prosecution, it must not affect the weight which you give to the evidence against him."

"More than a match for the prosecution!" That had been rather rough, to be sure, and the fifth juror had looked at Dockbridge and grinned.

The jury filed out, the prisoner was led back to the pen, the Judge vanished into his chambers, and the prosecutor, his feet on the counsel table, lit a cigar and indulged in retrospection. The benches were deserted. There was no one but himself left in the court-room. Usually, when a jury retired, there was some mother or wife or daughter, with her handkerchief to her eyes, waiting for them to come back, but this fellow had none such. He had fought alone. Well, damn him, he deserved to! But who the deuce was he? It had been clever on his part not to take the stand. Strange to be trying a man you had never seen before—of whom you knew nothing, who had merely side-stepped into your life and would soon back out of it. "Poor devil!" thought the deputy as he lit another Perfecto.

Now the jury, as juries sometimes do, wanted to talk and had a consuming desire to smoke, so they both smoked and talked; and when O'Reilly came to turn on the lights in the court-room, they were still out, and Dockbridge had fallen fast asleep.

III

At half past ten o'clock the big court-room still remained almost empty. Inside the rail the clerk and the stenographer, having returned from a short visit to Tom Foley's saloon across the way, were languidly discussing the condition of the stock-market. A nebulous illumination in the vastness above only served to increase the shadowy dimness of the room. The talk of the pair made a scarcely audible whisper in the great silence. Outside, an electric car could be heard at intervals; within, only the slam of iron doors, subdued by distance, echoed through the corridors.

Dockbridge had awakened, and, lounging before his table, was trying to get up a case for the morrow. The Judge had gone home for dinner. One by one the court attendants had strayed away, coming back to push open the heavy door, and, after a furtive glance at the empty bench, as silently to depart.

Below in the stifling pen, alone behind the bars, James Graham sat staring vacantly at the stained cement floor. A savage rage surged through him. Curse them! That infernal Judge had not given him half a chance. Once more he recalled that day when he had stepped out into the sunlight a free man. Again he saw his iron bed, his cobbling bench, his coarse food, his hated stripes. He choked at the thought of them. Only two months before he had been at liberty. Think of it! Good clothes, good food, pleasure! God, what a fool! A dull pain worked through his body; he remembered that he had not eaten since seven that morning.

Outside in the corridor the keeper was smoking a cigar. The fumes of it drifted in and mingled with the stench of the pen. It almost nauseated him. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. The act brought rushing back the memories of his childhood, and of how, every night, he would lay his head upon his mother's knee and say, "Have I been a good boy to-day?" A sob shook him, and he pressed closer against the wall.

A sound of moving feet roused him suddenly. A door swung open, shut again, and voices came with a draught of air from the corridor.

The keeper waiting outside stirred and stood up, looking regretfully at his cigar.

"Get up there, you!"

The prisoner obeyed perfunctorily, and followed the officer heavily up the stairs and down the dirty passage to the court-room. Outside, he shrank from entering. Those eyes—those eyes! That hard, pitiless Judge! But he was pushed roughly forward. Then his old pugnacity returned; he set his teeth, and entered.

He trudged around the room and stopped at the bar before the clerk. On his right sat the twelve silent men. On the bench the white-haired Judge was gazing at him with sad but penetrating eyes.

It was different from the mellow glow of the afternoon. They were all so still—like ghosts—and all around, all about him! He wanted to shout out at them, "Speak! for God's sake, speak!" But something stifled him. The overwhelming power of the law held him speechless.

The clerk rose without looking at the prisoner.

"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?"

"We have," answered the foreman, rising and standing with his eyes upon the floor.

"How say you, do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty?"

"Guilty of grand larceny in the first degree."

The prisoner involuntarily pressed his hand to his heart. He had weathered that blast before and could do so again. Dockbridge gave him a look full of pity. Graham hated him for it. That child! That snivelling little fool! He wanted none of his sympathy! His breath came faster. Must they all look at him? Was that a part of his trial—to be stared down? He glared back at them. The room swam, and he saw only the stern face on the bench above.

"Name?" broke in the harsh voice of the clerk.

"James Graham."

"Age?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Married, or unmarried?" "Temperate?" came the pitiless questions, all answered in a monotone.

"Ever convicted before?"

"No," said the prisoner in a low voice, but the word sounded to him like a roaring torrent. Then came once more that awful silence. The dread eye of the Judge seared his soul.

"Graham, is that the truth?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you quite sure?"

That merciless question! What had that to do with it? Why should he have to tell them? That was not his crime. He was ready to suffer for what he had done, but not for the past; that was not fair—he had paid for that. He must defend himself.

"Yes, sir."

"Swear him," said the Judge.

The officer took up the soiled Bible and started to place it in Graham's hand. But the hand dropped from it.

"No, no, I can't!" he faltered; "I can't—I—I—it is no use," he added huskily.

"When were you convicted?"

"I served six months for petty larceny in the penitentiary six years ago."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Quite sure? Think again!"

"Yes, sir," almost inaudibly.

"Swear him."

Again the book was forced toward the unwilling hand, and again it was refused.

"Have you no pity—no mercy?" his dark eyes seemed to say. Then they gave way to a look of utter hopelessness.

"I served three years in Charlestown for larceny, and was discharged two months ago."

"Is that all?"

"O, God! Isn't that enough?" suddenly groaned the prisoner. "No, no; it isn't all! It's always been the same old story! Concord, Joliet, Elmira, Springfield, Sing Sing, Charlestown—yes, six times. Twelve years. . . . I'm a jailbird." He laughed harshly and rested wearily against the wooden bar.

"Have you anything to say why judgment should not be pronounced against you?"

"Your Honor, will you hear me?" Graham choked back a dry sob.

The Judge slightly inclined his head.

"Yes. I'm a jailbird," uttered the prisoner rapidly. "I'm only out two months." There was no defiance in his voice now, and his eyes searched the face of the Judge, seeking for mercy. "I had a good home—no matter where—and a good father and mother. My father died and didn't leave anything, and I had to work while my mother kept house. I worked on the farm, winter and summer, summer and winter, early and late. I got sick of it. I quit the farm and went to the city. I worked hard and did well. I learned shorthand, and finally got a job as a court stenographer. That's how I know about the rules of evidence. Then I got started wrong, and by and by I took a fifty-dollar note and another fellow was sent up for it. After that I didn't care. I had a good time—of its kind. It was better than a dog's life on the farm, anyway. By and by I got caught, and then it was no use. Each time I got out I swore I'd lead an honest life. But I couldn't. A convict might as well try to eat stones as to find a job. But when I got free this time I made up my mind to starve rather than get back again. I meant it, too. I tried hard. It was no use in Boston—they're too respectable. All a convict can do there is to get a two weeks' job sawing wood. At the end of that time he's supposed to be able to take care of himself. I had to give it up and come to New York.

"It was August, and I went the rounds of the offices for three weeks, looking for work. No one wanted a stenographer, and there was nothing else to do that I could find. Once I thought I had something on the water-front, but the man changed his mind. A woman told me to go to Dr. Westminster, so I went. He was kind enough, said he was very busy, but would do all he could for me; that there was a special society for just such cases, and he would give me a card. I thanked him, and took the card and went to the society. The young woman there gave me two soup tickets, and said she would do all she could for me. Next day she reported that there was nothing doing just then, but if I could come back in about a month they could probably do better. Then she gave me another soup ticket. I drank the soup and then I went back to Dr. Westminster. He was rather annoyed at seeing me again, and said that he had done all that he could, but would bear me in mind; meantime, unless I heard from him, it would be no use to call again. I'd lived on soup for two days.

"I got a meal by begging on the avenue. Then another woman told me to go to Dr. Emberdays, and I went to him. By this time I must have been looking pretty tough. He said that he would do what he could, and that there was a society to which he would give me a line. They asked me a devil of a lot of questions, and gave me a flannel undershirt. It made me sick! An undershirt in August, when I wanted bread and human sympathy!

"It was no use. I gave up parsons and tried the river-front again. I didn't get over one meal a day, and my head ached all the time. I heard of a job at One Hundred and Sixty-ninth Street, carrying lumber. I got a nickel for holding a horse, and went up. It was a gang of niggers. They got a dollar a day. The boss was a nigger, too, and didn't want cheap white trash. I almost went down on my knees to him, and finally he said I might come the next day. I slept in a field under a tree without anything to eat that night, and started in at seven the next morning. The thermometer went up to ninety-six, and we worked without stopping. I had to lug one end of a big stick, with a nigger under the other end, one hundred yards, then go back and get another. I got so I didn't know what I was doing. At eleven o'clock I fainted, and then I was sick, dreadfully sick. At three the boss nigger kicked me and said I had to stop faking or I wouldn't get paid, and so I got up and lugged until six. But I was so ill I knew it was no use. I couldn't do that kind of work.

"It was an awfully hot night. I got off the 'L' at Thirty-fourth Street and walked through to the avenue. When I got to the Waldorf I stopped and looked in the windows. There were men and women in there, and flowers and everything to eat—just what I could eat if I chose. And I had been working with niggers, Judge, all day long until I fainted, heaving timber. I just stood and waited, and when a chance came to snatch a roll of bills I took it. They couldn't catch me. I was good for ten of 'em, Judge.

"After that it was easy. I met some of the fellows that had served time with me and got back into the old life. Judge, it's no use. I don't blame you for what you are going to do, nor I don't blame the jury. Anyone could see through the bluff I put up. I'm guilty. I'm a jailbird, I say. I'm done. Only I've had no chance, Judge. Give me another; let me go back to the farm. I'll go, I swear I will! It'll kill me to go to prison. I'm a human being. God meant me to live out of doors, and I've spent half of my life inside stone walls. Let me go back to the country. I'll go, Judge. I'm a human being. Give me one more chance."

There was no sound when the prisoner stopped speaking. The judge did not reply for a full minute. His face wore its habitual look of sadness. Then he spoke in a very low tone, but one which was distinctly audible in the silence of the court-room.

"Graham, you have read your own sentence. You have confessed that you cannot lead an honest life. Your fault is that you will not work. There are a thousand farms within a hundred miles, where you could earn a livelihood for the asking. Your intelligence is of a high order. By ordinary application you could have risen far above your fellows. You are a dangerous criminal—all the more dangerous for your ability. You almost outwitted the jury, and conducted your own case more ably than nine out of ten lawyers would have done. You have ruined your own life, and cast away a pearl of price. You have my pity, but I cannot allow it to affect my duty. Graham, I sentence you to State Prison for ten years."

The prisoner shivered, and covered his face with his hands. Then the officer clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him toward the door.

"Gentlemen, you are excused." The Judge bowed to the jury.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" bawled the attendant: "all persons having business with Part One of the General Sessions of the Peace, held in and for the County of New York, may now depart. This Court stands adjourned until to-morrow morning at half past ten o'clock."

In the Course of Justice

A trim, neatly dressed young man, holding in one of his carefully gloved hands a bamboo cane, sat upon a bench in Union Square one brilliant October morning some ten years ago. All about him swarms of excited sparrows chattered and fought among the yellow leaves. A last night's carnation languished in his button-hole, and his smoothly shaven lantern-jaw and high cheekbones suggested the type of upper Broadway and the Tenderloin. In spite of this, the general effect was not unpleasing, especially as his sparse curly hair, just turning gray at the temples, disclosed a forehead suggestive of more than usual intelligence in a face otherwise ordinary. A shadowy, inscrutable smile from time to time played upon his features, at one moment making them seem good-naturedly sympathetic, at another, sinister. The casual observer would have classed him as a student or actor. He was both, and more.

From a large jewelry store across the way presently emerged a diminutive messenger-boy carrying a small, square bundle, and turned into Broadway. The man on the bench, known to his friends as "Supple Jim," rose unobtrusively to his feet. The apostle of Hermes stopped to buy a cent's worth of mucilaginous candy from the Italian on the corner, and then, whistling loudly, dawdled upon his way. The man followed, manœuvring for position, while the boy, now in the chewing stage and struggling violently, lingered to inspect a mechanical toy. The supple one accomplished a flank movement, approached, touched him on the shoulder, and displayed a silver badge beneath his coat.

"Young man, I'm from the Central Office, and need your help. About a block from here a feller will come runnin' after you and say they've given you the wrong bundle—see? He'll hand you another, and tell you to give him the one you've got. He's a crook—'Paddy the Sneak'—old game! see?"

The boy was all attention, his jaws motionless.

"Yep!" he replied, his eyes glistening delightedly.

"Well, I'll be right behind you; and when he throws the game into you, just pretend you fall to it an' hand him your box. Then I'll make the collar. Are you on?"

"Say, that's easy!" grinned the boy.

"Show us what you're good for, then, and I'll have the Inspector send you some passes for the theayter."

The boy started on in business-like fashion. As his interlocutor had predicted, a hatless "feller" overtook him, breathless, and entered into voluble explanation. The messenger exchanged bundles, and then, eyes front, continued up the street until the detective should pounce upon his victim. For some strange reason no such event took place. At the end of the block he cast a furtive glance behind him. Both Paddy and the Central Office man had vanished, to dispose in a Bowery pawnshop of the fruits of their short hour of toil, dividing between them one hundred and sixty dollars as the equivalent of the diamond stud which the box had contained.

Half an hour later, drawn by a fascination which he found irresistible, the hero of this legal memoir took a car to the Criminal Courts Building, and made his way to the General Sessions.

"Forgot my subpœna, Cap'n. I'm a witness. Just let me in, please!" he said, with a smile of easy good-nature.

Old Flaherty, the superannuated door-keeper, known as The Eagle, eyed the young man suspiciously for a moment, and then, grumbling, allowed him to enter the court-room. The thief who had so easily secured admittance, fought his way persistently through the throng, elbowed by the gruff officer at the inner gate, and selecting the best seat on the front bench, compelled its earlier occupants to make room for him with a calm assurance and matter-of-course superiority which they had not the courage to oppose.

Supple Jim listened with interest to the call of the calendar. A few lawyers, with their witnesses, whose cases had gone over until the morrow, struggled out through the crush at the door, with no perceptible diminution in the throng within. The clerk prepared to call the roll of the jury.

"Trial jurors in the case of 'The People against Richard Monohan,' please answer to your names."

The twelve, in varying keys, had all replied; the trial was "on" again, having been interrupted, evidently, by the adjournment of the afternoon before. A venerable complainant now resumed the story of how two young men, whose acquaintance he had made in a saloon the previous Sunday evening, had followed him into the street, assaulted him on his way home and robbed him of his ring. He positively identified the prisoner as the one who had wrenched it from his finger.

Next, an officer testified to having arrested the defendant upon the old gentleman's description, and to having found in his pocket a pawn-ticket calling for the ring in question.

The case, in the vernacular of the courts, was "dead open and shut."

The People "rested," and the defendant, a miserable specimen of those wretched beings that constitute the penumbra of crime, took the stand. His defence was absurd. He denied ever before having seen his accuser, had not been in the saloon, had not taken the ring, had not pawned it, had bought the ticket from a man on the corner who, he remembered, had told him he was getting a bargain at three dollars. He could not describe this "man," or account for his own whereabouts on the evening in question. He had been drunk at the time. It was a story as old as theft itself.

The prosecutor winked at the jury, and the Judge once more summoned the apostolic-looking complainant to the chair.

"You realize, sir, the terrible consequences to this young man should you be mistaken? Are you quite sure that he is one of the persons who robbed you?" he inquired with becoming gravity.

The witness raised himself by his cane, and stepping down to where the prisoner sat, gazed searchingly into his stolid face.

"God knows," said he, "I wouldn't harm a hair of his head. But by all that's holy, I swear he's the man who took my ring."

A wave of interest passed over the assembled attorneys. That was business for you! No use to cross-examine an old fellow like him. There was a great nodding of heads and shuffling of feet.

"Do you think you could identify your other assailant if you should see him?" continued the judge.

"I'm sure of it," calmly replied the witness.

"Very well, sir," continued his Honor; "see if you can do so."

Half of the audience moved uneasily, and glanced longingly toward the closed means of exit. A woman tittered hysterically. The witness slowly descended, and, escorted by a policeman, began his inspection, scrutinizing each face with care. Quietly he moved along the first bench, and then, gently shaking his head, along the second. The interest became breathless. A sigh of relief rippled along the settees after him. The only spectator unmoved by what was taking place was Supple Jim, who smiled genially at the old gentleman as the latter glanced at him and passed on. Four rows—five rows—six rows—seven rows. At last there was but one bench left, and the excitement reached the point of ebullition. Would he find him? Were they going to be disappointed after all? Only half a bench left! Only two men left! Ah! what was that? People shoved one another in the back, craning their heads to see what was doing in the distant corner where the complainant stood. Suddenly the searcher faced the Judge, and, pointing to the last occupant of the rear settee, announced with conviction:

"Your Honor, this is the other man!"

A murmur travelled rapidly around the court-room. Honors were even between a Judge who could thus unerringly divine the presence of a malefactor and a patriarch who, out of so great a multitude, was able unhesitatingly to pick out a midnight assailant.

The "criminal" attorneys whispered among themselves: "Well, say! what do you think of that! All right, eh? Well, I guess! Well, say!"

This picturesque digression concluded, interest again centred in the defendant, of whose ultimate conviction there could no longer be any doubt.

Not that the identification of the accomplice had any real significance, since the man so ostentatiously picked out by the patriarch in court had been caught red-handed at the time of the robbery within a block of the saloon, was already under indictment as a co-defendant, and being out on bail had merely been brought in under a bench warrant and placed among the spectators. But the performance had a distinct dramatic value, and the jury could not be blamed for making the natural deduction that if the complainant was right as regards the one, ipso facto he must be as to the other. That the complainant had already identified him at the police-station and at the Tombs seemed a matter of small importance. The point was, apparently, that the old fellow had a good memory, and one upon which the jury could safely rely.

The Judge charged the law, and the jury retired, returning almost immediately with a verdict of "Guilty of robbery in the first degree."

The prisoner at the bar swayed for an instant, steadied himself, and stood clinging to the rail, while his counsel made the usual motions for a new trial and in arrest of judgment.

"Clear the box! Clear the box!" shouted the clerk, and the jury, their duty comfortably discharged, filed slowly out.

The court-room rapidly emptied itself into the corridors. Supple Jim waited on the steps of the building until a young woman, carrying a baby, came wearily out, and, as she passed, thrust a roll of bills into her hand.

"Your feller's been done dirt!" he growled. "Take that, and put it out of sight. Don't give it to any lawyer, now! You'll need it yourself." Then he sprang lightly upon the rear platform of a surface car as it whizzed by, and vanished from her astonished gaze.

Thus was an innocent man convicted, while crime triumphant played the part of benefactor.

II

The next morning Supple Jim, sitting in the warm sunshine in the bay-window of his favorite restaurant, lazily finished a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs, glancing casually, meanwhile, at the morning paper which lay open before him. At a respectful distance his attendant awaited the moment when this important guest should snap his fingers, demand his damage, and call for a Carolina Perfecto. These would be forthcoming with alacrity, for Mr. James Hawkins was more of an autocrat on Fourteenth Street than a Pittsburg oil magnate at the Waldorf. Just now the Supple James was reading with keen enjoyment how, the day before, a quick-witted old gentleman had brought a malefactor to justice. At one of the paragraphs he broke into a gentle laugh, perusing it again and again, apparently with intense enjoyment.

Had ever such a farce been enacted in the course of justice! He tossed away the paper and swore softly. Of course, the only thing that had rendered such a situation possible at all was the fact that the aged Farlan was a superlative old ass. To hear him tell his yarn on the stand, you would have thought that it gave him positive pain to testify against a fellow being. Did you ever see such white hair and such a big white beard? Why, he looked like Dowie or Moses, or some of those fellows. When Jim had tripped him up and slipped off the ring, the old chap had already swallowed half a dozen "County Antrims," and wasn't in a condition to remember anything or anybody. The idea of his going so piously into court and swearing the thing on to Monohan; it gave you the creeps! A fellow might go to "the chair" as easy as not, in just the same way. Of course, Jim had not intended to get the young greenhorn into any trouble when he had sold him the pawn-ticket. He had been just an easy mark. And when the police had arrested him and found the ticket in his pocket, there was not any call for Jim to set them straight. That was just Monohan's luck, curse him! Let him look out for himself.

But to see the patriarch carefully forging the shackles upon the wrong man, had filled Jim with a wondering and ecstatic bewilderment. The stars in their courses had seemed warring in his behalf.

Think of it! That fellow Monohan could get twenty years! It made him mad, this infernal conspiracy, as it seemed to him, between judges and prosecutors. It mattered little, apparently, whether they got the right man or not, so long as they got someone! What business had they to go and convict a fellow who was innocent, and put him, "Jim," the cleverest "gun" in the profession, in such a position? He wondered if folks in other lines of business had so many problems to face. The stupidity of witnesses and the trickery of lawyers was almost beyond belief. It was a perennial contest, not only of wit against wit, strategy against strategy, but, worst of all, of wit against impenetrable dulness. Why, if people were going to be so careless about swearing a man's liberty away, it was time to "get on the level." You might be nailed any time by mistake, and then your record would make any defence impossible. You had the right to demand common honesty, or, at least, intelligence, on the part of the prosecution.

But the main question was, What was going to become of Monohan? Well, the boy was convicted, and that was the end of it. It was quite clear to Jim that, had he been victimized in the same way, no one would have bothered about it at all. It was simply the fortune of war.

But twenty years! His own pitiful aggregate of six, with vacations in between, as it were, looked infinitesimal beside that awful burial alive. He'd be fifty when he came out—if he ever came out! Sometimes they died like flies in a hot summer. And then there was always Dannemora—worst of all, Dannemora! It would kill him to go back. He couldn't live away from the main stem now. Why, he hadn't been in stir for five years. All his prison traits, the gait, the hunch, were effaced—gone completely. His brows contracted in a sharp frown.

"What's the use?" he muttered as he rose to go. "He ain't worth it! I can stake his wife and kids till his time's up! But, God! I could never go back!"

Yet the same irresistible force which had directed him to the court-room the day before, now led him to the Grand Central Station. Like one walking in a dream, he bought a ticket and took the noon train alone to Ossining.

Following a path that led him quickly to a hill above the town not far from the prison walls, he threw himself at full length beside a bowlder, and gazed upon the familiar outlook. Across the broad, shining river lay the dreamy blue hills he had so often watched while working at his brushes. Here and there a small boat skimmed down the stream before the same fresh breeze that sent the red and brown leaves fluttering along the grass. The sunlight touched everything with enchantment, the cool autumn air was an intoxicant—it was the Golden Age again. No, not the Golden Age! Just below, two hundred yards away, he noticed for the first time a group of men in stripes breaking stones. Some were kneeling, some crouching upon their haunches. They worked in silence, cracking one stone after another and making little piles of the fragments. At the distance of only a few feet two guards leaned upon their loaded rifles. Jim shut his eyes.

III

The day of sentence came. Once more Jim found himself in the stifling court. He saw Monohan brought to the bar, and watched as he waited listlessly for those few terrible words. The Court listened with grim patience to the lawyer's perfunctory appeal for mercy, and then, as the latter concluded, addressed the prisoner with asperity.

"Richard Monohan, you have been justly convicted by a jury of your peers of robbery in the first degree. The circumstances are such as to entitle you to no sympathy from the Court. The evidence is so clear and positive, and the complainant's identification of you so perfect, that it would have been impossible for a jury to reach any other verdict. Under the law you might be punished by a term of twenty years, but I shall be merciful to you. The sentence of the Court is—" here the Judge adjusted his spectacles, and scribbled something in a book—"that you be confined in State Prison for a period of not less than ten nor more than fifteen years."

Monohan staggered and turned white.

The whole crowded court-room gasped aloud.

"Come on there!" growled the attendant to his prisoner. But suddenly there was a quick movement in the centre of the room, and a man sprang to his feet.

"Stop!" he shouted. "Stop! There's been a mistake! You've convicted the wrong man! I stole that ring!"

"Keep your seats! Keep your seats!" bellowed the court officers as the spectators rose impulsively to their feet.

Those who had been present at the trial two days before were all positive now that they had never taken any stock in the old gentleman's identification.

"Silence! Silence in the court!" shouted the Captain pounding vigorously with a paper-weight.

"What's all this?" sternly demanded the Judge. "Do you claim that you robbed the complainant in this case? Impossible!"

"Not a bit, yer 'Onor!" replied Jim in clarion tones. "You've nailed the wrong man, that's all. I took the ring, pawned it for five dollars, and sold the ticket to Monohan on the corner. I can't stand for his gettin' any fifteen years," he concluded, glancing expectantly at the spectators.

A ripple of applause followed this declaration.

"Hm!" commented his Honor. "How about the co-defendant in the case, identified here in the court-room? Do you exonerate him as well?"

"I've nothin' to do with him," answered Jim calmly. "I've got enough troubles of my own without shouldering any more. Only Monohan didn't have any hand in the job. You've got the boot on the wrong foot!"

Young Mr. Dockbridge, the Deputy Assistant District Attorney, now asserted himself.

"This is all very well," said he with interest, "but we must have it in the proper form. If your Honor will warn this person of his rights, and administer the oath, the stenographer may take his confession and make it a part of the record."

Jim was accordingly sworn, and informed that whatever he was about to say must be "without fear or hope of reward," and might be used as evidence against him thereafter.

In the ingenious and exhaustive interrogation which followed, the Judge, a noted cross-examiner, only succeeded in establishing beyond peradventure that Jim was telling nothing but the truth, and that Monohan was, in fact, entirely innocent. He therefore consented, somewhat ungraciously, to having the latter's conviction set aside and to his immediate discharge.

"As for this man," said he, "commit him to the Tombs pending his indictment by the Grand Jury, and see to it, Mr. District Attorney," he added with significance, "that he be brought before me for sentence."

Out into the balconies of the court-house swarmed the mob. Monohan had disappeared with his wife and child, not even pausing to thank his benefactor. It was enough for him that he had escaped from the meshes of the terrible net in which he had been entangled.

From mouth to mouth sprang the wonderful story. It was shouted from one corridor to another, and from elevator to elevator. Like a wireless it flew to the District Attorney's office, the reporters' room, the Coroner's Court, over the bridge to the Tombs, across Centre Street into Tom Foley's, to Pontin's, to the Elm Castle, up Broadway, across to the Bowery, over to the Rialto, along the Tenderloin; it flashed to thieves in the act of picking pockets, and they paused; to "second-story men" plotting in saloons, and held them speechless; the "moll-buzzers" heard it; the "con" men caught it; the "britch men" passed it on. In an hour the whole under-world knew that Supple Jim had squealed on himself, had taken his dose to save a pal, had anteed his last chip, had "chucked the game."

IV

Three long months had passed, during which Jim had lain in the Tombs. For a day or two the newspapers had given him considerable notoriety. A few sentimental women had sent him flowers of greater or less fragrance, with more or less grammatical expressions of admiration; then the dull drag of prison-time had begun, broken only by the daily visit of Paddy, and the more infrequent consultations with old Crookshanks.

The Grand Jury had promptly found an indictment, but when the District Attorney placed the case upon the calendar in order to allow our hero to plead guilty, Mr. Crookshanks, Jim's counsel, announced that his client had no intention of so doing, and demanded an immediate trial.

Dockbridge, however, now found himself in a situation of singular embarrassment, which made action upon his part for the present impossible. He was at his wits' end, for the law expressly required that no prisoner should be confined longer than two months without trial. And each week he was obliged to face the redoubtable Mr. Crookshanks, who with much bluster demanded that the case should be disposed of.

Thirteen weeks went by and still Jim lived on prison fare. Soon a reporter—an acquaintance of Paddy's—commented upon the fact to his city editor. The policy of the paper happening to be against the administration, an item appeared among the "Criminal Notes" calling attention to the period of time during which Jim had been incarcerated. Other papers copied, and scathing editorials followed. In twenty-four hours Jim's detention beyond the time regulated by statute for the trial of a prisoner without bail had become an issue. The great American public, through its representative, the press, clamored to know why the wheels of justice had clogged, and the campaign committee of the reform party called in a body upon the District Attorney, warning him that an election was approaching and inquiring the cause of the "illegal proceeding which had been brought to their attention." The editor of the Midnight American, with his usual impetuosity, threatened a habeas corpus.

Then the District Attorney sent for the Assistant, and the two had a hurried consultation. Finally the chief shook his head, saying: "There's no way out of it. You'll have to go to trial at once. Perhaps you can secure a plea. We can't afford any more delay. Put it on for to-morrow."

The next day "Part One of the Court of General Sessions of the Peace, in and for the County of New York," was crowded to suffocation, for the dramatic nature of Jim's act of self-sacrifice had not been forgotten, and a keen interest remained in its denouement. It was a brilliant January noon, and the sun poured through the great windows, casting irregular patches of light upon the throng within. High above the crowd of lawyers, witnesses, and policemen sat the Judge; below him, the clerk and Assistant District Attorney conferred together as to the order in which the cases should be tried; to the left reclined a row of non-combatants, "district leaders," ex-police magistrates, and a few privileged spectators; outside the rail crowded the members of the "criminal bar"; while in the main body of the room the benches were tightly packed with loafers, "runners" for the attorneys, curious women, indignant complainants, and sympathizing friends of the various defendants. Here no one was allowed to stand, but nearer the door the pressure became too great, and once more an overplus, new-comers, lawyers who could not force their way to the front, tardy policemen, persons who could not make up their minds to come in and sit down, and stragglers generally, formed a solid mass, absolutely blocking the entrance, and preventing those outside from getting in or anyone inside from getting out.

Around the room the huge pipes of the radiators clicked diligently; full steam was on, not a window open.

Jim was called to the bar, the jury sworn, and Dockbridge, with several innuendoes reflecting upon the moral character of any man who would confess himself a criminal and yet put the county to the expense and trouble of a trial, briefly opened the case.

The stenographer who had taken Jim's confession was the first witness. He read his notes in full, while Dockbridge nodded with an air of finality in the direction of the jury.

"Do you care to cross-examine, Mr. Crookshanks?" he inquired.

The lawyer shook his head.

Jim sat smiling, self-possessed, and silent.

The youthful Assistant, still hoping to wring a plea from the defendant, paused and leaned toward the prisoner's counsel.

"Come, come, what's the use?" he suggested benignantly. "Why go through all this farce? Let him plead guilty to 'robbery in the second degree.' He'll be lucky to get that! It's his only chance."

But upon the lean and withered visage of the veteran Crookshanks flickered an inscrutable smile, like that which played upon the features of his client.

"Not on your tin-type!" he ejaculated.

Dockbridge shrugged his shoulders, hesitated a moment, then glanced a trifle uneasily toward the crowd of spectators. Once more he turned in the direction of the prisoner.

"Well, I'll let him plead to grand larceny instead of robbery," he said, with an air of acting against his better judgment.

Crookshanks grinned sardonically and again shook his head.

"Very well, then," said the prosecutor sternly, "your client will have to take the consequences. Call the complainant."

"Daniel Farlan, take the witness' chair."

The crowd in the court-room waited expectantly. The complainant, however, did not respond.

"Daniel Farlan! Daniel Farlan!" bawled the officer.

But the venerable Farlan came not. Perchance he was a-sleeping or a-hunting.

"If your Honor pleases," announced Dockbridge, "the complainant does not answer. I must ask for an adjournment."

But in an instant the old war-horse, Crookshanks, was upon his feet snorting for the battle.

"I protest against any such proceeding!" he shouted, his voice trembling with well-simulated indignation. "My client is in jeopardy. I insist that this trial go on here and now!"

Dockbridge smiled deprecatingly, but the jury and spectators showed plainly that they were of Mr. Crookshanks's opinion. The Judge hesitated for a moment, but his duty was clear. There was no question but that Jim had been put in jeopardy.

"You must go on with the trial, Mr. Dockbridge," he announced reluctantly. "The jury has been sworn, and a witness has testified. It is too late to stop now."

The Assistant was forced to admit that he had no further evidence at hand.

"What!" cried the Judge. "No further evidence! Well, proceed with the defence!"

Dockbridge dropped into a chair and mopped his forehead, while the jury glanced inquiringly in the direction of the defendant. But now Crookshanks, the hero of a hundred legal conflicts, the hope and trust of all defenceless criminals, slowly arose and buttoned his threadbare frock-coat. He looked the Court full in the eye. The prosecutor he ignored.

"If your Honor please," began the old lawyer gently, "I move that the Court direct the jury to acquit, on the ground that the People have failed to make out a case."

The Assistant jumped to his feet. The spectators stared in amazement at the audacity of the request. The Judge's face became a study.

"What do you mean, Mr. Crookshanks?" he exclaimed. "This man is a self-confessed criminal. Do you hear, sir, a self-confessed criminal."

But the anger of the Court had no terrors for little Crookshanks. He waited calmly until the Judge had concluded, smiled deferentially, and resumed his remarks, as if the bench were in its usual state of placidity.

"I must beg most respectfully to point out to your Honor that the Criminal Code provides that the confession of a defendant is not of itself enough to warrant his conviction without additional proof that the crime charged has been committed. May I be pardoned for indicating to your Honor that the only evidence in this proceeding against my client is his own confession, made, I believe, some time ago, under circumstances which were, to say the least, unusual. While I do not pretend to doubt the sincerity of his motives on that occasion, or to contest at this juncture the question of his moral guilt, the fact remains that there has been no additional proof adduced upon any of the material points in the case, to wit, that the complainant ever existed, ever possessed a ring, or that it was ever taken from him."

He paused, coughed slightly, and, removing from his green bag a folded paper, continued: "In addition, it is my duty to inform the Court that a person named Farlan left the jurisdiction of this tribunal upon the day after Monohan's conviction of the offence for which my client is now on trial.

"After such an unfortunate mistake," said Crookshanks with an almost imperceptible twinkle in his "jury eye," "he can hardly be expected to assist voluntarily in a second prosecution. I hold in my hand his affidavit that he has left the State never to return."

The Judge had left his chair and was striding up and down the dais. He now turned wrathfully upon poor Dockbridge.

"What do you mean by trying a case before me prepared in such a fashion? This is a disgraceful miscarriage of justice! I shall lay the matter before the District Attorney in person! Mr. Crookshanks has correctly stated the law. I am absolutely compelled to discharge this defendant, who, by his own statement, ought to be incarcerated in State Prison! I—I—the Court has been hoodwinked! The District Attorney made ridiculous! As for you," casting a withering glance upon the prisoner, "if I ever have the opportunity, I shall punish you as you deserve!"

Dead silence fell upon the court-room. The clerk arose and cleared his throat.

"Mr. Foreman, have you agreed upon a verdict? What say you? Do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," replied the foreman, somewhat doubtfully.

There was a smothered demonstration in the rear of the court-room. A few spectators had the temerity to clap their hands.

"Silence! Silence in the court!" shouted the Captain.

The clerk faced the prisoner.

"James Hawkins, alias James Hawkinson, alias Supple Jim, you are discharged."

As our hero stepped from behind the bar, Paddy was the first to grasp his hand.

"You're the cleverest boy in New York!" he muttered enthusiastically; "and say, Jim," he lowered his voice—could it be with a shade of embarrassment?—"you're a hero all right, into the bargain."

"Oh, cut that out!" answered Jim. "Wasn't I playing a sure thing? And wasn't it worth three months,—and ten dollars per to the old guy for staying over in Jersey,—to put 'em in a hole like that?"

And the two of them, relieved by this evasion of an impending and depressing cloud of moral superiority, went out, with others, to get a drink.

The Maximilian Diamond

Dockbridge yawned, threw down his fountain-pen, whirled his chair away from the window, through which the afternoon sun was pouring a dazzling flood of light, crossed his feet upon the rickety old table whose faded green baize was littered with newspapers, law books, copies of indictments, and empty cigarette boxes, and idly contemplated the graphophone, his latest acquisition. To a stranger, this little office, tucked away behind an elevator shaft under the eaves of the Criminal Courts Building, might have proved of some interest, filled as it was on every side with mementoes of hard-fought cases in the courts below, framed copies of forged checks and notes, photographs of streets and houses known to fame only by virtue of the tragedies they had witnessed, and an uncouth collection of weapons of all varieties from a stiletto and long tapering bread knife to the most modern Colt automatic. On the bookcase stood an innocent-looking bottle which had once contained poison, while above it hung a faded indictment accusing someone long since departed of administering its contents to another who did "for a long time languish, and languishing did die." An enormous black leather lounge, a safe, several chairs, and some pictures of English and American jurists completed the contents of the room. Here Dockbridge had for five years interviewed his witnesses, prepared his cases, and dreamed of establishing a forensic reputation which should later by a shower of gold repay him in part for the many tedious hours passed within its walls. From the grimy windows he could look down upon the court-yard of the Tombs and see the prisoners taking their daily exercise, while from the distance came faintly the din and rattle of Broadway. An air-shaft which passed through the room communicated in some devious manner with the prison pens on the mezzanine floor far beneath, and at times strange odors would come floating up bringing suggestions of prison fare. On such occasions Dockbridge would throw wide both windows, open the transom, and seek refuge in the library.

Taken as a whole, his five years there had been invaluable both from a personal and professional point of view. He had found himself from the very first day in a sort of huge legal clinic, where hourly he could run through the whole gamut of human emotions. It was to him, the embryonic advocate, what hospital service is to the surgeon. He was, as it were, an intern practising the surgery of the law. And what a multitude of cases came there for treatment—every disease of the mind and heart and soul! For a year or two he had been racked nervously and emotionally, forced from laughter in one moment, to tears the next. Then the mere fascination of his trade as prosecutor, the marshalling of evidence, the tactics of trials, the thwarting of conspiracies, the analysis of motives, the exposure of cunning tricks to liberate the guilty, had so possessed his mind that the suffering and sin about him, though keenly realized, no longer cost him sleep and peace of mind. And the stories that he heard! The mysteries which were unravelled before his very eyes, and those deeper mysteries the secrets of which were never revealed, but remained sealed in the hearts of those who, rather than disclose them, sought sanctuary within prison walls!

How he wished sometimes that he could write—if only a little! Through what strange labyrinths of human passion and ingenuity could he conduct his readers! Sometimes he tried to scribble the stories down, but the words would not come. How could you describe your feelings while trying a man for his life, when he sat there at the bar pallid and tense, his hands clutching each other until the nails quivered in the flesh; the groan of the convicted felon; the wail of the heart-broken mother as her son was led away by the officer? He had seen one poor fellow faint dead away on hearing his sentence to the living tomb; and had heard a murderer laugh when convicted and the day set for his execution. Sometimes, in sheer desperation at the thought of losing what he had seen and experienced, he would turn on the graphophone and talk into it, disconnectedly, by the hour. It usually came out in better shape than what he turned off with his pen. If he could only write!

"Dockbridge! Hi, there, Dockbridge!"

The door was kicked open, and the lank figure of one of his associates stood before him. His visitor grinned, and removed his pipe.

"Bob'll be up in a minute. Come along to 'Coney.'"

"Don't feel kittenish enough," answered Dockbridge.

"Oh, come on! It'll do you good."

The sound of rapid steps flew up the stairs, and Bob burst into the room, almost upsetting the first arrival.

"What are you doing up here in this smelly place?" he inquired. "Got a cigarette?"

Dockbridge threw him a package without altering his position.

At this moment the heavily built figure of the chief of staff entered.

"Holding a reception?" he asked good-naturedly.

Bob had slipped behind the owner of the graphophone and was rapidly surveying his desk. Suddenly he pounced on a pile of yellow paper, and, snatching it up, ran across the room.

"I thought so! He's been writing."

"Here you, Bob, give that back!" cried Dockbridge, springing up. He was blocked by the chief of staff.

"Fair play, now. It may be libellous. The censor demands the right of inspection."

"Oh, I don't mind if you see it!" said Dockbridge, "only I don't intend that cub to snicker over it. It's nothing, anyway."

"'The Maximilian Diamond!'" shouted the thief. "By George, what a rippin' title! Full of gore, I bet!"

"You give that back!" growled its owner.

"Gentlemen, allow me to present the well-known author and brilliant young literary man, Mr. John Dockbridge, whose picture in four colors is soon to appear on the cover of the 'Maiden's Gaslog Companion,'" continued Bob. "I read, 'The villain stood with his dagger elevated for an instant above the bare breast of his palpitating victim.' My, but it's great!"

"You see you'd better read it to us in self-defence," remarked the chief of staff. "Go ahead!"

"Promise, and I'll give it back," said Bob, from the door. "Refuse, and I send it to the 'American.'"

"It wasn't for publication, anyway," explained Dockbridge.

"Of course not," answered Bob. "We'll pass on it. Perhaps we'll send it in for that Five-Thousand-Dollar competition."

"Well, shut up, and I will. Give it here!" Dockbridge recovered the manuscript and returned to his armchair. The others disposed themselves upon the lounge.

"Oyez! Oyez!" cried Bob. "All persons desiring to hear the great American novel, draw near, give your attention and ye shall be heard."

"Keep still!" ordered the chief of staff. "Go ahead, Jack. I'll make him shut up."

"Mind you do," said Dockbridge. "It's about that big diamond, you know. The story begins in this room."

"Well, begin it," laughed Bob.

His companions pulled his head down on the chief's lap and smothered him with a handkerchief.

"Well," said Dockbridge rather sheepishly, "here goes."