McClure's Magazine/Volume 25/Number 5/In the Course of Justice

BY

ARTHUR TRAIN

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 amongst the yellow leaves. A last night's carnation languished in his buttonhole, and his smoothly-shaven lantern-jaw and high cheek bones 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, manouvring for position, while the bov, 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 businesslike 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 a 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 subpoena, Cap'n. I'm a witness. Just let me in, please!” he said with a smile of easy going-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 defense 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 would n'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 towards the worthless 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 traveled 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 centered 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.

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 a court 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'd 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 fellers. When Jim had tripped him up and slipped off the ring, the old chap had already swallowed half a dozen “County Antrims,” and was n't in a condition to remember anything or anybody. The idea of his going so piously into court and swearing the thing onto Monohan—it gave you the creeps! A feller might go to “the chair” as easy as not, in just the same way. Of course, Jim had n't 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 n't 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 feller, 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 some one! What business had they to go and convict a feller 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 dullness. 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 defense 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 fortunes 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 could n't live away from the main stem now. Why, he had n'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 boulder, 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.

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's 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 center 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-onner!” 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 did n'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.”

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 wit's 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 the 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 over-plus, 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 towards 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 ,” he ejaculated.

Dockbridge shrugged his shoulders, hesitated a moment, then glanced a trifle uneasily towards 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 defense!”

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 defenseless 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 purchased 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 offense 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's 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 Welsh 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.”

“O, cut that out,” answered Jim. “Wasn't I playing a sure thing? And was n'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.