“You sail-a de boat verr-a good-a,” he said. “So good-a as a man.”
A compliment from Demetrios Contos was a compliment indeed, and I keenly
appreciated it, though I could only nod my head in acknowledgment.
We held no more conversation, for I was busy recovering and he was busy
with the boat. He ran in to the wharf at Vallejo, made the boat fast,
and helped me out. Then it was, as we both stood on the wharf, that
Charley stepped out from behind a net-rack and put his hand on Demetrios
Contos’s arm.
“He saved my life, Charley,” I protested; “and I don’t think he ought to
be arrested.”
A puzzled expression came into Charley’s face, which cleared immediately
after, in a way it had when he made up his mind.
“I can’t help it, lad,” he said kindly. “I can’t go back on my duty, and
it’s plain duty to arrest him. To-day is Sunday; there are two salmon in
his boat which he caught to-day. What else can I do?”
“But he saved my life,” I persisted, unable to make any other argument.
Demetrios Contos’s face went black with rage when he learned Charley’s
judgment. He had a sense of being unfairly treated. The better part of
his nature had triumphed, he had performed a generous act and saved a
helpless enemy, and in return the enemy was taking him to jail.
Charley and I were out of sorts with each other when we went back to
Benicia. I stood for the spirit of the law and not the letter; but by
the letter Charley made his stand. As far as he could see, there was
nothing else for him to do. The law said distinctly that no salmon
should be caught on Sunday. He was a patrolman, and it was his duty to
enforce that law. That was all there was to it. He had done his duty,
and his conscience was clear. Nevertheless, the whole thing seemed
unjust to me, and I felt very sorry for Demetrios Contos.
Two days later we went down to Vallejo to the trial. I had to go along
as a witness, and it was the most hateful task that I ever performed in
my life when I testified on the witness stand to seeing Demetrios catch
the two salmon Charley had captured him with.
Demetrios had engaged a lawyer, but his case was hopeless. The jury was
out only fifteen minutes, and returned a verdict of guilty. The judge
sentenced Demetrios to pay a fine of one hundred dollars or go to jail
for fifty days.
Charley stepped up to the clerk of the court. “I want to pay that fine,”
he said, at the same time placing five twenty-dollar gold pieces on the
desk. “It—it was the only way out of it, lad,” he stammered, turning to
me.
The moisture rushed into my eyes as I seized his hand. “I want to pay—”
I began.
“To pay your half?” he interrupted. “I certainly shall expect you to pay
it.”
In the meantime Demetrios had been informed by his lawyer that his fee
likewise had been paid by Charley.
Demetrios came over to shake Charley’s hand, and all his warm Southern
blood flamed in his face. Then, not to be outdone in generosity, he
insisted on paying his fine and lawyer’s fee himself, and flew half-way
into a passion because Charley refused to let him.
More than anything else we ever did, I think, this action of Charley’s
impressed upon the fishermen the deeper significance of the law. Also
Charley was raised high in their esteem, while I came in for a little
share of praise as a boy who knew how to sail a boat. Demetrios Contos
not only never broke the law again, but he became a very good friend of
ours, and on more than one occasion he ran up to Benicia to have a gossip
with us.