THE CASE.
Peter went to work the next morning at an hour which most of us, if we
are indiscreet enough to wake, prefer to use as the preface to a
further two to four hours’ nap. He had spent his evening in a
freshening of his knowledge in certain municipal laws, and other
details which he thought he might need, and as early as five o clock he
was at work in the tenement district, asking questions and taking
notes. The inquiry took little skill The milk had come from the cart of
a certain company, which passed daily through the locality, not to
supply orders, but to peddle milk to whoever cared to buy. Peter had
the cart pointed out that morning, but, beyond making a note of the
exact name of the company, he paid no attention to it. He was aiming at
bigger game than a milk cart or its driver.
His work was interrupted only by his taking Mrs. Dooley and the two
children to the train. That done, Peter walked northwardly and
westwardly, till he had nearly reached the river front. It took some
little inquiry, but after a while he stumbled on a small shanty which
had a sign:
NATIONAL MILK COMPANY.
OFFICE.
The place, however, was closed and no one around seemed connected with
it, though a number of milk carts were standing about. Close to these
was a long line of sheds, which in turn backed up against a great
brewery. A couple of men lounged at the door of the sheds. Peter walked
up to them, and asked if they could tell him where he could find any
one connected with the milk company.
“The boss is off for lunch,” said one. “I can take an order, if that’s
what you want.”
Peter said it was not an order, and began chatting with the men. Before
he had started to question them, a third man, from inside the sheds,
joined the group at the door.
“That cow’s dead,” he remarked as he came up.
“Is it?” said the one called Bill. Both rose, and went into the shed.
Peter started to go with them.
“You can’t come in,” said the new-comer.
But Peter passed in, without paying the least attention to him.
“Come back,” called the man, following Peter.
Peter turned to him: “You are one of the employees of the National Milk
Company?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the man, “and we have orders—”
Peter usually let a little pause occur after a remark to him, but in
this case he spoke before the man completed his speech. He spoke, too,
with an air of decision and command that quieted the man.
“Go back to your work,” he said, “and don’t order me round. I know what
I’m about.” Then he walked after the other two men as rapidly as the
dimness permitted. The employee scratched his head, and then followed.
Dim as the light was, Peter could discern that he was passing between
two rows of cows, with not more than space enough for men to pass each
other between the rows. It was filthy, and very warm, and there was a
peculiar smell in the air which Peter did not associate with a cow
stable. It was a kind of vapor which brought some suggestion to his
mind, yet one he could not identify. Presently he came upon the two
men. One had lighted a lantern and was examining a cow that lay on the
ground. That it was dead was plain. But what most interested Peter,
although he felt a shudder of horror at the sight, were the rotted tail
and two great sores on the flank that lay uppermost.
“That’s a bad-looking cow,” he said.
“Ain’t it?” replied the one with the lantern. “But you can’t help their
havin’ them, if you feed them on mash.”
“Hold your tongue, Bill,” said the man who had followed Peter.
“Take some of your own advice,” said Peter, turning quickly, and
speaking in a voice that made the man step back. A terrible feeling was
welling up in Peter’s heart. He thought of the poor little
fever-stricken children. He saw the poor fever-stricken cow. He would
like to—to—.
He dropped the arm he had unconsciously raised. “Give me that lantern,”
he demanded.
The man hesitated and looked at the others.
“Give me that lantern,” said Peter, speaking low, but his voice ringing
very clear.
The lantern was passed to him, and taking it, he walked along the line
of cows. He saw several with sores more or less developed. One or two
he saw in the advanced stages of the disease, where the tail had begun
to rot away. The other men followed him on his tour of inspection, and
whispered together nervously. It did not take Peter long to examine all
he wanted to see. Handing back the lantern at the door, he said: “Give
me your names.”
The men looked nonplussed, and shifted their weights uneasily from leg
to leg.
“You,” said Peter, looking at the man who had interfered with him.
“Wot do yer want with it?” he was asked.
“That’s my business. What’s your name?”
“John Tingley.”
“Where do you live?”
“310 West 61st Street.”
Peter obtained and wrote down the names and addresses of the trio. He
then went to the “office” of the company, which was now opened.
“Is this an incorporated company?” he asked of the man tilted back in a
chair.
“No,” said the man, adding two chair legs to terra firma, and looking
at Peter suspiciously.
“Who owns it?” Peter queried.
“I’m the boss.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“That’s what I answered.”
“And your name is?”
“James Coldman.”
“Do you intend to answer my question?”
“Not till I know your business.”
“I’m here to find out against whom to get warrants for a criminal
prosecution.”
“For what?”
“The warrant will say.”
The man squirmed in his chair. “Will you give me till to-morrow?”
“No. The warrant is to be issued to-day. Decide at once, whether you or
your principal, shall be the man to whom it shall be served.”
“I guess you’d better make it against me,” said the man.
“Very well,” said Peter. “Of course you know your employer will be run
down, and as I’m not after the rest of you, you will only get him a few
days safety at the price of a term in prison.”
“Well, I’ve got to risk it,” said the man.
Peter turned and walked away. He went down town to the Blacketts.
“I want you to carry the matter to the courts,” he told the father.
“These men deserve punishment, and if you’ll let me go on with it, it
shan’t cost you anything; and by bringing a civil suit as well, you’ll
probably get some money out of it.”
Blackett gave his assent. So too did Patrick Milligan, and “Moike”
Dooley. They had won fame already by the deaths and wakes, but a “coort
case” promised to give them prestige far beyond what even these
distinctions conferred. So the three walked away proudly with Peter,
and warrants were sworn to and issued against the “boss” as principal,
and the driver and the three others as witnesses, made returnable on
the following morning. On many a doorstep of the district, that night,
nothing else was talked of, and the trio were the most envied men in
the neighborhood. Even Mrs. Blackett and Ellen Milligan forgot their
grief, and held a joint _soirée_ on their front stoop.
“Shure, it’s mighty hard for Mrs. Dooley, that she’s away!” said one.
“She’ll be feeling bad when she knows what she’s missed.”
The next morning, Peter, the two doctors, the Blacketts, the Milligans,
Dooley, the milk quintet, and as many inhabitants of the “district” as
could crush their way in, were in court by nine o’clock. The plaintiffs
and their friends were rather disappointed at the quietness of the
proceedings. The examinations were purely formal except in one
instance, when Peter asked for the “name or names of the owner or
owners” of the National Milk Company. Here the defendant’s attorney, a
shrewd criminal lawyer, interfered, and there was a sharp passage at
arms, in which an attempt was made to anger Peter. But he kept his
head, and in the end carried his point. The owner turned out to be the
proprietor of the brewery, as Peter had surmised, who thus utilized the
mash from his vats in feeding cattle. But on Peter’s asking for an
additional warrant against him, the defendant’s lawyer succeeded in
proving, if the statement of the overseer proved it, that the brewer
was quite ignorant that the milk sold in the “district” was what had
been unsalable the day before to better customers, and that the
skimming and doctoring of it was unknown to him. So an attempt to
punish the rich man as a criminal was futile. He could afford to pay
for straw men.
“Arrah!” said Dooley to Peter as they passed out of the court, “Oi
think ye moight have given them a bit av yer moind.”
“Wait till the trial,” said Peter. “We mustn’t use up our powder on the
skirmish line.”
So the word was passed through the district that “theer’d be fun at the
rale trial,” and it was awaited with intense interest by five thousand
people.