THE CONSEQUENCES.
Nor was it the district alone which talked of the speech. Perhaps the
residents of it made their feelings most manifest, for they organized a
torchlight procession that night, and went round and made Peter an
address of thanks. Mr. Dennis Moriarty being the spokesman. The judge
shook hands with him after the trial, and said that he had handled his
case well. The defendant’s lawyer told him he “knew his business.” A
number of the reporters sought a few words with him, and blended praise
with questions.
The reporters did far more than this, however. It was the dull
newspaper season, and the case had turned out to be a thoroughly
“journalistic” one. So they questioned and interviewed every one
concerned, and after cleverly winnowing the chaff, which in this case
meant the dull, from the gleanings, most of them gave several columns
the next morning to the story. Peter’s speech was printed in full, and
proved to read almost as well as it had sounded. The reporters were
told, and repeated the tales without much attempt at verification, that
Peter had taken the matter up without hope of profit; had paid the
costs out of his own pocket; had refused to settle “though offered nine
thousand dollars:” had “saved the Dooley children’s lives by sending
them into the country;” and “had paid for the burials of the little
victims.” So all gave him a puff, and two of the better sort wrote
really fine editorials about him. At election time, or any other than a
dull season, the case would have had small attention, but August is the
month, to reverse an old adage, when “any news is good news.”
The press began, too, a crusade against the swill-milk dealers, and the
men who had allowed all this to be possible. “What is the Health Board
about, that poison for children can be sold in the public streets?”
“Where is the District Attorney, that prosecutions for the public good
have to be brought by public-spirited citizens?” they demanded.
Lynx-eyed reporters tracked the milk-supplies of the city, and though
the alarm had been given, and many cows had been hastily sent to the
country, they were able to show up certain companies, and print details
which were quite lurid enough, when sufficiently “colored” by their
skilful pens. Most residents of New York can remember the “swill-milk”
or “stump-tail milk” exposures and prosecutions of that summer, and of
the reformation brought about thereby in the Board of Health. As the
details are not pleasant reading, any one who does not remember is
referred to the daily press, and, if they want horrible pictures, to
Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Weekly. Except for the papers, it is to be
questioned if Peter’s case would have resulted in much more than the
punishment of the man actually convicted; but by the press taking the
matter up, the moment’s indignation was deepened and intensified to a
degree which well-nigh swept every cow-stable off the island, and drove
the proper officials into an activity leading to great reforms.
No one was more surprised than Peter, at the sudden notoriety, or at
the far-reaching results. He collected the articles, and sent them to
his mother. He wrote:
“Don’t think that this means any great start. In truth, I am a hundred
dollars the poorer for the case, and shall have to cut off a few
expenses for the rest of the year. I tell you this, because I know you
will not think for a moment that I grudge the money, and you are not to
spoil my trifling self-denial by any offer of assistance You did quite
enough in taking in those two little imps. Were they very bad? Did they
tramp on your flowers, and frighten poor old Russet [Russet was the
cat] out of his fast waning lives? It was a great pleasure to me to see
them so plump and brown, and I thank you for it. Their testimony in
court was really amusing, though at the same time pathetic. People tell
me that my speech was a good one. What is more surprising, they tell me
that I made the prisoner, and Mr. Bohlmann, the brewer, who sat next to
Dummer, both cry. I confess I grieve over the fact that I was not
prosecuting Bohlmann. He is the real criminal, yet goes scot free. But
the moral effect is, I suppose, the important thing, and any one to
whom responsibility could be traced (and convicted) gives us that. I
find that Mr. Bohlmann goes to the same church I attend!”
His mother was not surprised. She had always known her Peter was a
hero, and needed no “York papers” to teach her the fact. Still she read
every line of the case, and of the subsequent crusade. She read Peter’s
speech again and again, stopping to sob at intervals, and hugging the
clipping to her bosom from time to time, as the best equivalent for
Peter, while sobbing: “My boy, my darling boy.” Every one in the
mill-town knew of it, and the clippings were passed round among Peter’s
friends, beginning with the clergyman and ending with his school-boy
companions. They all wondered why Peter had spoken so briefly. “If I
could talk like that,” said a lawyer to the proud mother, “I’d have
spoken for a couple of hours.” Mrs. Stirling herself wished it had been
longer. Four columns of evidence, and only a little over a half column
of speech! It couldn’t have taken him twenty minutes at the most. “Even
the other lawyer, who had nothing to say but lies, took over a column
to his speech. And his was printed close together, while that of
Peter’s was spread out (_e.g._ solid and leaded) making the difference
in length all the greater.” Mrs. Stirling wondered if there could be a
conspiracy against her Peter, on the part of the Metropolitan press.
She had promptly subscribed for a year to the New York paper which
glorified Peter the most, supposing that from this time on his name
would appear on the front page. When she found it did not and that it
was not mentioned in the press and Health Board crusade against the
other “swill-milk” dealers, she became convinced that there was some
definite attempt to rob Peter of his due fame. “Why, Peter began it
all,” she explained, “and now the papers and Health Board pretend it’s
all their doings.” She wrote a letter to the editor of the paper—a
letter which was passed round the office, and laughed over not a little
by the staff. She never received an answer, nor did the paper give
Peter the more attention because of it.
Two days after the trial, Peter had another call from Dummer.
“You handled that case in great style, Mr. Stirling,” he told Peter.
“You know the ropes as well as far older men. You got just the right
evidence out of your witnesses, and not a bit of superfluous rubbish.
That’s the mistake most young men make. They bury their testimony in
unessential details, I tell you, those two children were worth all the
rest put together. Did you send them to the country on purpose to get
that kind of evidence?”
“No,” said Peter.
“Well, every man in that jury was probably a father, and that child’s
talk took right hold of them. Not but that your speech would have done
the business. You were mighty clever in just telling what you saw, and
not going into the testimony. You could safely trust the judge to do
that. It was a great speech.”
“Thank you,” said Peter.
“He’s not to be taffied,” thought the lawyer. “Plain talking’s the way
to deal with him.” He ended his allusions to the trial, and said: “Now,
Mr. Stirling, Mr. Bohlmann doesn’t want to have these civil suits go
any further. Mr. Bohlmann’s a man of respectability, with a nice wife
and some daughters. The newspapers are giving him quite enough music
without your dragging him into court.”
“It’s the only way I can reach him,” said Peter.
“But you mustn’t want to reach him. He’s really a well-meaning man, and
if you ask your clergyman—for I believe you go to Dr. Purple’s
church?—you’ll find he’s very charitable and generous with his money.”
Peter smiled curiously. “Distributing money made that way is not much
of a charity.”
“He didn’t know,” said the lawyer. Then catching a look which came into
Peter’s face, he instantly added, “at least, he had no idea it was that
bad. He tells me that he hadn’t been inside those cow-sheds for four
years.”
“Come and see me to-morrow,” said Peter.
After Dummer had gone, Peter walked uptown, and saw his clergyman.
“Yes,” he was told, “Mr. Bohlmann has always stood high in the church,
and has been liberal and sensible with his money. I can’t tell you how
this whole thing has surprised and grieved me, Mr. Stirling. It must be
terrible for his wife. His daughters, too, are such nice sweet girls.
You’ve probably noticed them in church?”
“No,” Peter had not noticed them. He did not add that he did not notice
young girls—that for some reason they had not interested him
since—since—
“Where does he live?” inquired Peter.
“Not ten blocks from here,” replied Dr. Purple, and named the street
and number.
Peter looked at his watch and, thanking the clergyman, took his leave.
He did not go back to his office, but to the address, and asked for Mr.
Bohlmann. A respectable butler showed him into a handsome parlor and
carried his name to the brewer.
There were already two girls in the room. One was evidently a caller.
The other, a girl with a sweet, kindly, German face, was obviously one
of the “nice” daughters. His arrival checked the flow of conversation
somewhat, but they went on comparing their summer experiences. When the
butler came back and said aloud, “Mr. Bohlmann will see you in the
library, Mr. Stirling,” Peter noticed that both girls turned
impulsively to look at him, and that the daughter flushed red.
He found Mr. Bohlmann standing uneasily on the rug by the fireplace,
and a stout woman gazing out of the window, with her back to the room.
“I had a call from your lawyer this morning, Mr. Bohlmann,” said Peter,
“and I have taken the liberty of coming to see you about the cases.”
“Sid down, sid down,” said his host, nervously, though not sitting
himself.
Peter sat down. “I want to do what is best about the matter,” he said.
The woman turned quickly to look at him, and Peter saw that there were
tears in her eyes.
“Vell,” said the brewer, “what is dat?”
“I don’t know,” said Peter, “and that’s why I’ve come to see you.”
Mr. Bohlmann’s face worked for a moment. Then suddenly he burst into
tears. “I give you my word, Mr. Stirling,” he said, “that I didn’t know
it was so. I haven’t had a happy moment since you spoke that day in
court.” He had heretofore spoken in English with a slight German
accent. But this he said in German. He sat down at the table and buried
his face in his arms. His wife, who was also weeping, crossed to him,
and tried to comfort him by patting him on the back.
“I think,” said Peter, “we had best drop the suits.”
Mr. Bohlmann looked up. “It is not the money, Mr. Stirling,” he said,
still speaking in German. “See.” He drew from a drawer in his desk a
check-book, and filling up a check, handed it to Peter. It was dated
and signed, but the amount was left blank. “There,” he said, “I leave
it to you what is right.”
“I think Mr. Dummer will feel we have not treated him fairly,” said
Peter, “if we settle it in this way.”
“Do not think of him. I will see that he has no cause for complaint,”
the brewer said. “Only let me know it is ended, so that my wife and my
daughters—” he choked, and ended the sentence thus.
“Very well,” said Peter. “We’ll drop the suits.”
The husband and wife embraced each other in true German fashion.
Peter rose and came to the table. “Three of the cases were for five
thousand each, and the other two were for two thousand each,” he said,
and then hesitated. He wished to be fair to both sides. “I will ask you
to fill in the check for eight thousand dollars. That will be two each
for three, and one each for two.”
Mr. Bohlmann disengaged himself from his wife, and took his pen. “You
do not add your fee,” he said.
“I forgot it,” laughed Peter, and the couple laughed with him in their
happiness. “Make it for eight thousand, two hundred and fifty.”
“Och,” said the brewer once more resuming his English. “Dat is too
leedle for vive cases.”
“No,” said Peter. “It was what I had decided to charge in case I got
any damages.”
So the check was filled in, and Peter, after a warm handshake from
both, went back to his office.
“Dat iss a fine yoong mahn,” said the brewer.