A BLOCK IN THE WHEEL.
At half-past one o'clock people began to loiter into the court-house
at Wilkesbarre; at two the court-room was full. They were there, the
most of them, to hear the close of the now celebrated Burnham case.
The judge came in from a side door and took his seat on the bench.
Beneath him the prothonotary was busy writing in a big book. Down in
the bar the attorneys sat chatting familiarly and pleasantly with one
another. Sharpman was there, and Craft was at his elbow.
Goodlaw was there, and Mrs. Burnham sat in her accustomed place. The
crier opened court in a voice that could be heard to the farthest end
of the room, though few of the listeners understood what his "Oyez!
oyez! oyez!" was all about.
Some opinions of the court were read and handed down by the judge. The
prothonotary called the jury list for the week. Two or three jurors
presented applications for discharge which were patiently considered
and acted on by the court.
The sheriff arose and acknowledged a bunch of deeds, the title-pages
of which had been read aloud by the judge.
An attorney stepped up to the railing and presented a petition to the
court; another attorney arose and objected to it, and quite a little
discussion ensued over the matter. It finally ended by a rule being
granted to show cause why the petition should not be allowed. Then
there were several motions made by as many lawyers. All this took much
time; a good half-hour at least, perhaps longer.
Finally there was a lull. The judge was busily engaged in writing. The
attorneys seemed to have exhausted their topics for conversation and
to be waiting for new ones.
The jury in the Burnham case sat listlessly in their chairs, glad that
their work in the matter at issue was nearly done, yet regretful that
a case had not been made out which might have called for the exercise
of that large intelligence, that critical acumen, that capacity
for close reasoning, of which the members of the average jury
feel themselves to be severally and collectively possessed. As it
was, there would be little for them to do. The case was extremely
one-sided, "like the handle on a jug," as one of them sententiously
and somewhat scornfully remarked.
The judge looked up from his writing. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "are
you ready to proceed in the case of 'Craft against Burnham'?"
"We are ready on the part of the plaintiff," replied Sharpman.
Goodlaw arose. "If it please the court," he said, "we are in the same
position to-day that we were in on Saturday night at the adjournment.
This matter has been, with us, one of investigation rather than of
defence.
"Though we hesitate to accept a statement of fact from a man of Simon
Craft's self-confessed character, yet the corroborative evidence seems
to warrant a belief in the general truth of his story.
"We do not wish to offer any further contradictory evidence than that
already elicited from the plaintiff's witnesses. I may say, however,
that this decision on our part is due not so much to my own sense of
the legal barrenness of our case as to my client's deep conviction
that the boy Ralph is her son, and to her great desire that justice
shall be done to him."
"In that case," said the judge, "I presume you will have nothing
further to offer on the part of the plaintiff, Mr. Sharpman?"
"Nothing," replied that gentleman, with an involuntary, smile of
satisfaction on his lips.
"Then," said Goodlaw, who was still standing, "I suppose the evidence
may be declared closed. I know of no--" He stopped and turned to see
what the noise and confusion back by the entrance was about. The eyes
of every one else in the room were turned in that direction also. A
tipstaff was trying to detain Ralph at the door; he had not recognized
him. But the boy broke away from him and hurried down the central
aisle to the railing of the bar. In the struggle with the officer he
had lost his hat, and his hair was tumbled over his forehead. His face
was grimy and streaked with perspiration; his clothes were torn and
dusty, and in his hand he still carried his shoes and stockings.
"Mr. Goodlaw!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper as he hastened across
the bar, "Mr. Goodlaw, wait a minute! I ain't Robert Burnham's son! I
didn't know it till yestaday; but I ain't--I ain't his son!"
The boy dropped, panting, into a chair. Goodlaw looked down on him
in astonishment. Old Simon clutched his cane and leaned forward with
his eyes flashing fire. Mrs. Burnham, her face pale with surprise and
compassion, began to smooth back the hair from the lad's wet forehead.
The people back in the court-room had risen to their feet, to look
down into the bar, and the constables were trying to restore order.
It all took place in a minute.
Then Ralph began to talk again:--
"Rhymin' Joe said so; he said I was Simon Craft's grandson; he told--"
Sharpman interrupted him. "Come with me, Ralph," he said, "I want to
speak with you a minute." He reached out his hand, as if to lead him
away; but Goodlaw stepped between them, saying, sternly:--
"He shall not go! The boy shall tell his story unhampered; you shall
not crowd it back down his throat in private!"
"I say the boy shall go," replied Sharpman, angrily. "He is my client,
and I have a right to consult with him."
This was true. For a moment Goodlaw was at his wit's end. Then, a
bright idea came to him.
"Ralph," he said, "take the witness-stand."
Sharpman saw that he was foiled.
He turned to the court, white with passion.
"I protest," he exclaimed, "against this proceeding! It is contrary
to both law and courtesy. I demand the privilege of consulting with
my client!"
"Counsel has a right to call the boy as a witness," said the judge,
dispassionately, "and to put him on the stand at once. Let him be
sworn."
Ralph pushed his way up to the witness-stand, and the officer
administered the oath. He was a sorry-looking witness indeed.
At any other time or in any other place, his appearance would have
been ludicrous. But now no one laughed. The people in the court-room
began to whisper, "Hush!" fearing lest the noise of moving bodies
might cause them to lose the boy's words.
To Goodlaw it was all a mystery. He did not know how to begin the
examination. He started at a venture.
"Are you Robert Burnham's son?"
"No, sir," replied Ralph, firmly. "I ain't."
There was a buzz of excitement in the room. Old Simon sat staring
at the boy incredulously. His anger had changed for the moment into
wonder. He could not understand the cause of Ralph's action. Sharpman
had not told him of the interview with Rhyming Joe--he had not thought
it advisable.
"Who are you, then?" inquired Goodlaw.
"I'm Simon Craft's grandson." The excitement in the room ran higher.
Craft raised himself on his cane to lean toward Sharpman. "He lies!"
whispered the old man, hoarsely; "the boy lies!"
Sharpman paid no attention to him.
"When did you first learn that you are Mr. Craft's grandson?"
continued the counsel for the defence.
"Last night," responded Ralph.
"Where?"
"At Mr. Sharpman's office."
The blood rushed suddenly into Sharpman's face. He understood it all
now; Ralph had overheard.
"Who told you?" asked Goodlaw.
"No one told me, I heard Rhymin' Joe--"
Sharpman interrupted him.
"I don't know," he said, "if the court please, what this boy is trying
to tell nor what wild idea has found lodgement in his brain; but I
certainly object to the introduction of such hearsay evidence as
counsel seems trying to bring out. Let us at least know whether the
responsible plaintiff in this case was present or was a party to this
alleged conversation."
"Was Mr. Craft present?" asked Goodlaw of the witness.
"No, sir; I guess not, I didn't hear 'im, any way."
"Did you see him?"
"No, sir; I didn't see 'im. I didn't see either of 'em."
"Where were you?"
"In the room nex' to the street."
"Where did this conversation take place?"
"In the back room."
"Was the door open?"
"Just a little."
"Who were in the back room?"
"Mr. Sharpman an' Rhymin' Joe."
"Who is Rhyming Joe?"
"He's a man I used to know in Philadelphy."
"When you lived with Craft?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was his business?"
"I don't know as anything. He used to bring things to the house
sometimes, watches an' things."
"How long have you known Rhyming Joe?"
"Ever since I can remember."
"Was he at Craft's house frequently?"
"Yes, sir; most all the time."
An idea of the true situation of affairs was dawning upon Goodlaw's
mind. That Ralph had overheard Rhyming Joe say to Sharpman that the
boy was Simon Craft's grandson was evident. But how to get that fact
before the jury in the face of the rules of evidence--that was the
question. It seemed to him that there should be some way to do it, and
he kept on with the examination in order to gain time for thought and
to lead up to the point.
"Did Mr. Sharpman know that you were in his office when this
conversation took place?"
"No, sir; I guess not."
"Did Rhyming Joe know you were there?"
"No, sir; I don't believe he did."
"From the conversation overheard by you, have you reason to believe
that Rhyming Joe is acquainted with the facts relating to your
parentage?"
"Yes, sir; he must know."
"And, from hearing that conversation, did you become convinced that
you are Simon Craft's grandson and not Robert Burnham's son?"
"Yes, sir, I did. Rhymin' Joe said so, an' he knows."
"Did you see Rhyming Joe last night?"
"No, sir. Only as he passed by me in the dark."
"Have you seen him to-day?"
"No, sir; he promised to go away this mornin'."
"To whom did he make that promise?"
Sharpman was on his feet in an instant, calling on Ralph to stop, and
appealing to the court to have the counsel and witness restricted to
a line of evidence that was legal and proper. He saw open before him
the pit of bribery, and this fearless boy was pushing him dangerously
close to the brink of it.
The judge admonished the defendant's attorney to hold the witness
within proper bounds and to proceed with the examination.
In the meantime, Goodlaw had been thinking. He felt that it was of the
highest importance that this occurrence in Sharpman's office should be
made known to the court and the jury, and that without delay. There
was but one theory, however, on which he could hope to introduce
evidence of all that had taken place there, and he feared that that
was not a sound one. But he determined to put on a bold face and make
the effort.
"Ralph," he said, calmly, "you may go on now and give the entire
conversation as you heard it last night between Mr. Sharpman and
Rhyming Joe."
The very boldness of the question brought a smile to Sharpman's face
as he arose and objected to the legality of the evidence asked for.
"We contend," said Goodlaw, in support of his offer, "that neither the
trustee-plaintiff nor his attorney are persons whom the law recognizes
as having any vital interest in this suit. The witness on the stand is
the real plaintiff here, his are the interests that are at stake, and
if he chooses to give evidence adverse to those interests, evidence
relevant to the matter at issue, although it may be hearsay evidence,
he has a perfect right to do so. His privilege as a witness is as high
as that of any other plaintiff."
But Sharpman was on the alert. He arose to reply.
"Counsel forgets," he said, "or else is ignorant of the fact, that
the very object of the appointment of a guardian is because the law
considers that a minor is incapable of acting for himself. He has no
discretionary power in connection with his estate. He has no more
right to go on the witness-stand and give voluntary hearsay evidence
which shall be adverse to his own interests than he has to give away
any part of his estate which may be under the control of his trustee.
A guardian who will allow him to do either of these things without
objection will be liable for damages at the hands of his ward when
that ward shall have reached his majority. We insist on the rejection
of the offer."
The judge sat for a minute in silence, as if weighing the matter
carefully. Finally he said:--
"We do not think the testimony is competent, Mr. Goodlaw. Although the
point is a new one to us, we are inclined to look upon the law of the
case as Mr. Sharpman looks on it. We shall be obliged to refuse your
offer. We will seal you a bill of exceptions."
Goodlaw had hardly dared to expect anything else. There was nothing
for him to do but to acquiesce in the ruling of the court.
Ralph turned to face him with a question on his lips.
"Mr. Goodlaw," he said, "ain't they goin' to let me tell what I heard
Rhymin' Joe say?"
"I am afraid not, Ralph; the court has ruled that conversation out."
"But they won't never know the right of it unless I tell that. I've
got to tell it; that's what I come here for."
The judge turned to the witness and spoke to him, not unkindly:--
"Ralph, suppose you refrain from interrogating your counsel, and let
him ask questions of you; that is the way we do here."
"Yes, sir, I will," said the boy, innocently, "only it seems too bad
'at I can't tell what Rhymin' Joe said."
The lawyers in the bar were smiling, Sharpman had recovered his
apparent good-nature, and Goodlaw began again to interrogate the
witness.
"Are you aware, Ralph," he asked, "that your testimony here to-day
may have the effect of excluding you from all rights in the estate
of Robert Burnham?"
"Yes, sir, I know it."
"And do you know that you are probably denying yourself the right to
bear one of the most honored names, and to live in one of the most
beautiful homes in this community?"
"Yes, sir, I know it all. I wouldn't mind all that so much though if
it wasn't for my mother. I've got to give her up now, that's the worst
of it; I don't know how I'm goin' to stan' that."
Mrs. Burnham, sitting by her counsel, bent her head above the table
and wept silently.
"Was your decision to disclose your knowledge reached with a fair
understanding of the probable result of such a disclosure?"
"Yes, sir, it was. I knew what the end of it'd be, an' I had a pirty
hard time to bring myself to it, but I done it, an' I'm glad now 'at
I did."
"Did you reach this decision alone or did some one help you to it?"
"Well, I'll tell you how that was. All't I decided in the first place
was to tell Uncle Billy,--he's the man't I live with. So I told him,
an' he said I ought to tell Mrs. Burnham right away. But she wasn't
home when I got to her house, so I started right down here; an' they
was an accident up on the road, an' the train couldn't go no further,
an' so I walked in--I was afraid I wouldn't get here in time 'less
I did."
"Your long walk accounts for your dusty and shoeless condition, I
suppose?"
"Yes, sir; it was pirty dusty an' hot, an' I had to walk a good ways,
an' my shoes hurt me so't I had to take 'em off, an' I didn't have
time to put 'em on again after I got here. Besides," continued the
boy, looking down apologetically at his bruised and dusty feet, "I
hurt my feet a-knockin' 'em against the stones when I was a-runnin',
an' they've got swelled up so 'at I don't believe I could git my shoes
on now, any way."
Many people in the room besides Mrs. Burnham had tears in their eyes
at the conclusion of this simple statement.
Then Ralph grew white about the lips and looked around him uneasily.
The judge saw that the lad was faint, and ordered a tipstaff to bring
him a glass of water. Ralph drank the water and it refreshed him.
"You may cross-examine the witness," said Goodlaw to the plaintiff's
attorney.
Sharpman hardly knew how to begin. But he felt that he must make an
effort to break in some way the force of Ralph's testimony. He knew
that from a strictly legal point of view, the evidence was of little
value, but he feared that the boy's apparent honesty, coupled with his
dramatic entrance, would create an impression on the minds of the jury
which might carry them to a disastrous verdict. He leaned back in his
chair with an assumed calmness, placed the tips of his fingers against
each other, and cast his eyes toward the ceiling.
"Ralph," he said, "you considered up to yesterday that Mr. Craft and I
were acting in your interest in this case, did you not?"
"Yes, sir; I thought so."
"And you have consulted with us and followed our advice until
yesterday, have you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And last night you came to the conclusion that we were deceiving
you?"
"Yes, sir; I did."
"Have you any reason for this opinion aside from the conversation you
allege that you heard?"
"I don't know as I have."
"At what hour did you reach my office last evening?"
"I don't know, I guess it must 'a' been after eight o'clock."
"Was it dark?"
"It was jest dark."
"Was there a light in the office when you came in?"
"They was in the back room where you an' Rhymin' Joe were."
"Did you think that I knew when you came into the office?"
"I don't believe you did."
"Why did you not make your presence known?"
"Well, I--I--"
"Come, out with it! If you had any reason for playing the spy, let's
hear what it was."
"I didn't play the spy. I didn't think o' bein' mean that way, but
when I heard Rhymin' Joe tell you 'at I wasn't Robert Burnham's son,
I was so s'prised, an' scart-like 'at I couldn't speak."
This was a little more than Sharpman wanted, but he kept on:--
"How long were you under the control of this spirit of muteness?"
"Sir?"
"How long was it before the power to speak returned to you?"
"Oh! not till Rhymin' Joe went out, I guess. I felt so bad I didn't
want to speak to anybody."
"Did you see this person whom you call Rhyming Joe?"
"Only in the dark."
"Not so as to recognize him by sight?"
"No, sir."
"How did you know it was he?"
"By the way he talked."
"How long is it since you have been accustomed to hearing him talk?"
"About three years."
"Did you see me last night?"
"I caught a glimpse of you jest once."
"When?"
"When you went across the room an' gave Rhymin' Joe the money."
Sharpman flushed angrily. He felt that he was treading on dangerous
ground in this line of examination. He went on more cautiously.
"At what time did you leave my office last night?"
"Right after Rhymin' Joe did. I went out to find him."
"Then you went away without letting me know of your presence there,
did you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you find this Rhyming Joe?"
"No, sir, I couldn't find 'im."
"Now, Ralph, when you left me at the Scranton station on Saturday
night, did you go straight home?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you see any one to talk with except Bachelor Billy that night
after you left me?"
"No, sir."
"Where did you go on Sunday morning?"
"Uncle Billy an' me went down to the chapel to meetin'."
"From there where did you go?"
"Back home."
"And had your dinner?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did you do after that?"
"Me an' Uncle Billy went up to the breaker."
"What breaker?"
"Burnham Breaker."
"Why did you go there?"
"Jest for a walk, an' to see how it looked."
"How long did you stay there?"
"Oh, we hadn't been there more'n fifteen or twenty minutes 'fore Mrs.
Burnham's man came for me an' took me to her house."
Sharpman straightened up in his chair. His drag-net had brought up
something at last. It might be of value to him and it might not be.
"Ah!" he said, "so you spent a portion of yesterday afternoon at Mrs.
Burnham's house, did you?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
"How long did you stay there?"
"Oh! I shouldn't wonder if it was two or three hours."
"Did you see Mrs. Burnham alone?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have a long talk together?"
"Yes, sir, a very nice long talk."
Sharpman thought that if he could only lead the jury, by inference,
to the presumption that what had taken place to-day was understood
between Ralph and Mrs. Burnham yesterday it would be a strong point,
but he knew that he must go cautiously.
"She was very kind to you, wasn't she?"
"Yes, sir; she was lovely. I never had so good a time before in all my
life."
"You took dinner with her, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have a good dinner?"
"It was splendid."
"Did you eat a good deal?"
"Yes, sir, I think I eat a great deal."
"Had a good many things that were new to you, I presume?"
"Yes, sir, quite a good many."
"Did you think you would like to go there to live?"
"Oh, yes! I did. It's beautiful there, it's very beautiful. You don't
know how lovely it is till you get there. I couldn't help bein' happy
in a home like that, an' they couldn't be no nicer mother'n Mrs.
Burnham is, nor no pirtier little sister. An' everybody was jest as
good to me there! Why, you don't know what a--"
The glow suddenly left the boy's face, and the rapture fled from his
eyes. In the enthusiasm of his description he had forgotten, for the
moment, that it was not all to be his, and when the memory of his loss
came back to him, it was like a plunge into outer darkness. He stopped
so unexpectedly, and in such apparent mental distress that people
stared at him in astonishment, wondering what had happened.
After a moment of silence he spoke again: "But it ain't mine any
longer; I can't have any of it now; I've got no right to go there at
all any more." The sadness in his broken voice was pitiful. Those who
were looking on him saw his under lip tremble and his eyes fill with
tears. But it was only for a moment. Then he drew himself up until
he sat rigidly in his chair, his little hands were tightly clenched,
his lips were set in desperate firmness, every muscle of his face
grew tense and hard with sudden resolution. It was a magnificently
successful effort of the will to hold back almost overpowering
emotion, and to keep both mind and body strong and steady for any
ordeal through which he might have yet to pass.
It came upon those who saw it like an electric flash, and in another
moment the crowded room was ringing with applause.