[Footnote A: The Judge who hears litigated motions does not now sign ex
parte orders. The inside history of this change in the practice may some
day be found in a biography. Meanwhile this tale is told "without
prejudice."]
Van was out of temper. Van, the calm squelcher of office boys--the
recognised saviour of managing clerks--the patient instructor of
sophomoric attorneys--the courteous Guide, Philosopher and Friend for
all busy members of the New York Bar--Van, whose serenity and sanity had
withstood some thirty years of service as Chambers Clerk, was in ill
humour.
Unusual as this was, it might have been explained if the Judge who
throws papers on the floor had been upon the Bench. But his Honour was
presiding over another Court. Martin, therefore, put it down to the
weather, which was hot, and resigned himself to waiting, which was
wearisome.
The Court Room was stuffy as usual, and crowded as always. Martin
languidly studied the lawyers about him, trying to guess the kind of
business each represented. Here he prophesied a struggle for "costs,"
and there a contest for "time." In one face he read the cunning of the
technical trickster, in another the earnest belief in a Cause, and idly
took to betting with himself on his prognostications.
The low droning of voices had a soothing note, and the hot atmosphere of
the room soon set him nodding. A moment more and he was out of the
Court, far away from the lawyers--at the east end of Long Island, with
the strength and vigour of early Autumn in the air. For some seconds he
was dimly conscious of a man standing near him asking an oft-repeated
question. Then he woke with a start and saw Allison.
"Do you always sleep with your eyes open?"
"Ye--yes," he yawned, rubbing the optics in question, "it's a trick I
learned from a front seat and a dull lecturer at college."
"Well, what are you doing here beside dreaming?"
"Waiting to get some papers from Van."
"Why don't you get them then, and go home to sleep?"
"Van's off his trolley to-day. Got to wait."
"Um.--'Furioso' on the Bench?"
"No.--Hot weather, I guess."
"Ah. Who's on deck then?"
"I don't know, and Van couldn't, or wouldn't, tell."
"Well, I was about to ask you to take charge of a little matter for me,
but I'm afraid I oughtn't to keep you out of bed."
"What's it about?"
"Nothing but opposing an application for a bill of particulars. I don't
care very much whether I win or lose. Merely contest it as a matter of
form. You can submit it without argument, if you'd rather, but I've
another case in Part IV., and can't wait here. Will you do it, you
dormouse?"
"Yes--provided you won't damn me if you lose."
"Don't care a cuss."
"All right."
"Thank you. Good-bye."
Martin glanced lazily at the papers Allison tossed into his lap.
_Phelps_ vs. _Orson_? What number was it on the calendar? He pulled the
_Law Journal_ out of his pocket and consulted the list of "motions."
Twenty-second case? Good lord--Allison had buncoed him! If he argued
that motion he'd have to stay in the stuffy Court Room all morning. But
he wouldn't argue it--he'd give the papers to Van, and let him hand them
up to the Court when the case was called. Martin stuffed the documents
into his pocket, and lolling back in his chair, tried to regain those
scenes from which Allison had rudely torn him. To further this, he
rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes. But try as he might, he
could not again rid himself of his surroundings, for there was more
movement all over the room as the waiting crowd grew restless, and
directly back of him two men whispered with maddening persistency. For a
time Martin tried to fuse their sibilants into the general buzz, but
failing in this, began to listen to their conversation. In a few seconds
he ceased to hear any of the other sounds going on about him.
--"Then Van doesn't know," one of the men asserted. "I tell you Colton's
ill and he's been assigned to take his place. He's never sat here
before? Well, of course not. That's just the point. You've got a head
like a tack! Now listen to what I say, and, for God's sake, don't make a
mess of it. The order's in a green cover like this----"
The speaker paused and Martin almost turned, but checked himself in
time.
"No, there ain't many this colour.--You can't miss it if you keep awake.
It'll be handed to Van sometime before recess. When he gives it to His
Nibs you watch it like a cat, and the minute he signs it make for the
telephone and notify 'em at the office. They'll keep the wire open. Now
d'ye think you've got sense enough to work this thing straight?"
The other man made no response, but probably nodded, for his companion
continued:
"All right then. I'm o double f. But remember if you botch it, you'll be
wanting a new job."
The speaker rose and passed before Martin, who languidly glanced at him
and then strolled into the Rotunda. Mullin the process-server stood, as
usual, near the door. Martin touched his arm.
"Mullin," he began, "didn't you want to bet me a few days ago that you
knew every man who entered this Court House?"
"Sure. Wanter take me up?"
"Yes," answered Martin, hurrying him toward the right hand stairway.
"Bet you a good cigar you won't know the man in grey clothes we'll see
coming down from the other side."
They had just reached the first landing when the person in question
passed through the open hall below.
Mullin laughed.
"I'll take a 'Carolina Perfecto,'" he said and began to move up the
steps again.
"Do you know him?" questioned Martin, slowly following.
"Sure. Everybody knows him. Give us something harder."
"Well, who is he?"
"Nevis--of course."
"Who's he?"
"Boss reporter of _The Guardian_."
"O, I thought he was a lawyer."
Martin spoke in a tone of disappointment.
"Nope. Too smart for that!" laughed the process-server.
"Well, I owe you a cigar, I suppose. We can't get a Carolina Perfecto
here, but I'll see you when Court adjourns, or if not then, some other
day."
"All right, Mr. Martin, your credit's good, I guess."
Nevis of _The Guardian_? What did that dirty sheet have to do with
Court orders in green covers or any other covers? What sort of boys
worked for such papers nowadays? Martin had himself served an
apprenticeship in the newspaper world and still felt a lively interest
in the ways of Park Row. He would have a look at the cub reporter left
on guard. With this purpose in view he returned to the Court Room, but
the moment he entered the door the object of his quest was completely
forgotten. The judge had already ascended the Bench, and His Honour was
Charles Blagden, Esq.
Martin slipped into a rear seat and watched the youthful face of the man
behind the desk.
There was no love lost between Martin and the Hon. Charles Blagden. They
had met as lawyers and Blagden had been the victor; they had met as men
to differ on every matter of opinion and taste; they had met as rivals
and Martin had written a letter of congratulation which had cost him the
bitterest thoughts of his life. But Fortune continued to shower gifts
upon her favourite and not very long after his marriage, an appointment
to a vacancy on the Supreme Court Bench made Blagden the youngest Judge
in the City.
Charles Blagden was a careful lawyer and he made a capable Judge--so
capable, indeed, that his political party had just nominated him as its
Judicial candidate for the coming November elections.
But not satisfied with the start which Fortune had thus given, the
hero-worshippers set out to make Fame meet him half way.
What silly discoveries are made in the light of one small success; what
senseless tributes are inspired by achievement--no matter what the
agency. Blagden's capability as a lawyer became "distinguished ability"
on the tongues of hundreds of his fellow-citizens who never knew him.
There were dozens of prophets who had always "marked him out," and
scores of men ready with stories and anecdotes of his prowess and skill.
Martin had watched Blagden's career with a jealousy but little removed
from positive hatred, and every word of this indiscriminate praise
fretted him almost past endurance. He felt himself as able a man as his
rival, he knew many lawyers more worthy of distinction and, smarting
under the injustice of these sudden acclamations, he began to grow
contemptuous of public esteem.
It was not long, however, before he awoke to the danger of brooding over
such thoughts. The world was big enough for them both, and the mighty
metropolis was a world so wide that the blotting out of any face was
only the matter of a step in the crowd. This man should not spoil or
embitter his life.
From the moment of that resolution Blagden disappeared from his horizon,
and Martin began to view life again from his normal standpoint.
It was only when business threatened to bring him into Blagden's Court
that he experienced the old feeling of bitterness. But then it returned
with a rush. One such lesson had been sufficient to warn him however,
and Martin thereafter appeared before Judge Blagden by proxy only.
It was just as well, he thought, as he felt the hot blood surging
through his veins, that Allison didn't insist upon his arguing
_Phelps_ vs. _Orson_. It would have been impossible to address that
Self-Satisfied Piece of Humanity with respect. Thank goodness he could
escape by handing the papers to the Clerk!
He rose and passed along the rear of the Court Room. In the far corner
sat a newspaper artist sketching the Judge and the scene about his desk.
Martin glanced sharply at the man, but he was absorbed in his work and
obviously not on the outlook for green-covered law papers. Nearer the
front, however, sat a young fellow studying every movement behind the
rail, and sometimes even rising nervously from his seat in his efforts
to keep a clear view. This was undoubtedly the youth whose place
depended on his vigilant watch of the Bench. What the devil was it all
about? In an instant his old newspaper instinct had carried everything
before it and Martin passed down the middle aisle, seating himself
immediately behind the young reporter.
"_Phelps_ vs. _Orson_."
Martin started at the sound of the Judge's voice, every fibre in his
body tingling with instant defiance.
The defendant's attorney answered "Ready," but Martin made no response.
He knew he did not intend to argue the case and should promptly state
the fact.
"_Phelps_ vs. _Orson_?" repeated the Justice inquiringly.
"Ready!" answered Martin, yielding to the call of sheer perversity.
It was childish, petty, absurd--and he knew it. But at that moment to
defy custom, to oppose everything and everybody, to hamper and obstruct
the Court in every possible manner, no matter how futile, seemed
absolutely essential to the assertion of his independence and the
maintenance of his self-respect.
Some one vacated a seat immediately in front of the nervous reporter who
hastily gathered his papers together and moved into the empty chair.
Martin at once rose and took the journalist's place. As he did so he
felt something crackle beneath him, and rising picked up a crumpled
piece of paper from the seat. It was a sheet torn from a reporter's pad,
and as he lazily unfolded it Martin saw it was covered with writing in a
weak, boyish hand. To the initiated the scribbles were unmistakable
studies in newspaper captions or headings--the "makeup" of which Martin
recalled as a fad of his cub-reporter days.
The first attempt was as follows:
"A CANDIDATE CORALLED."