The Sheriff’s Faithful Man.
After breakfast, old John, as he left the hotel alone, stood on the
large stone steps for a moment or two, gazing in wonder at the volume
of traffic that seemed to be ever and ever increasing. A well-fed,
greasy, sleeky individual, accompanied by a lean, pallid person in
a small straw hat and a large paper collar, and one who would have
had difficulty in passing for anything other than what he was, an
attorney’s overworked and underpaid office-hack, hung about the
pavement, eyeing him closely.
“Are you sure he’s the man?” the well-fed one murmured _sotto voce_, as
he pulled some papers from his pocket, and examined them.
“Sure? Absolutely,” replied the clerk. “I saw him as he left the boat
yesterday. But don’t let him bluff you. Our principals say he is as
cunning as a fox.”
Old John descended slowly, and, as he reached the pavement, the greasy,
sleeky man, who, of course, was none other than the boss bailiff of the
State, smiled an oily smile, which was the most valuable part of his
stock-in-trade, and accosting him, said:
“Oh—er—Mister Brownloe, half a moment, please.”
Old John paused and stared at them both.
“You’ll excuse me, won’t you?” and the bailiff proceeded to grapple
with a number of documents, which seemed to evade the touch of his fat
fingers.
“Ah’ll excuse yow,” answered old John, with a broad smile, “but Ah
ain’t Mister Brownloe.”
The bailiff laughed affably.
“Oh, we understand each other, Mister Brownloe,” he said. “It takes
an old dog for a hard road, eh, Mister Brownloe?” and he laughed some
more. “But if you won’t mind stepping round the corner for a moment
where it will be more private, we——”
“Dang you!” blurted old John indignantly. “What do I want to go round
the corner with yow fer? Who be yow, eh?”
“Well, really,” and the bailiff laughed pleasantly, “you’re about
the hardest case I’ve met, Mister Brownloe, and I’ve met some queer
ones—thousands of them. You know well enough” (producing a sealed
document) “that I’ve got a warrant of _Ca. Re._ against you! Really I
don’t know how you can take it so calmly,” and another pleasant ripple
of official mirth came from him.
“A _w-what_!” cried old John.
“Well, you _are_ a caution,” pursued the hypocritical bum. “I’ll just
read it to you:
‘_To James Ballantyne, my Chief Bailiff, greeting:—By virtue of a
writ of Capias ad Respondurdum to me directed, I command you that you
take Robert Brox Brownloe if he be found in my bailiwick, and him
safely keep until he shall have satisfied the sum of £850, which sum
was ordered to be paid by the said Robert Brox Brownloe to William
Smith, plaintiff in this suit, together with office fees, legal and
incidental expenses, besides interest at the rate of £8 per centum
per annum. Hereof fail not. William Thomas, Sheriff._’”
“What have all thet rigermarole got to do wi’ me?” exclaimed old John.
“Ah ain’t Brownloe, or ennerone else; Ah’m John Dashwood. And look yow
here, and just listen to me: Ah’ve heerd o’ your sort often enoof, so
just yow get on abaht your business and doan’t interfere wi’ me else
Ah’ll call a perleeceman and give the two on yow in charge.”
The bailiff rubbed his hands, and laughed in a most friendly fashion.
“Well, if you ain’t just the coolest fellow that ever I have come
across in all my experience, Mr. Brownloe, and I can’t help but admire
you. It’s a pleasure to meet a man like you. But, really, you know, and
you mustn’t blame me or my friend Mr. Tomkins, here. I’ll make it as
pleasant as I can for you, but you must consider yourself my prisoner
until the sum is paid, together with the office fees.” He repeated
“office fees” several times, and each time smiled most seductively,
for that was where he himself came in. Then he placed his hand on old
John’s shoulder to administer the legal official “touch,” without
which, according to George the Fourth or someone of ancient descent,
the “arrest” would not be good business.
Old John side-stepped and, striking a Jack Johnson attitude, used
threatening language.
“Now really,” and the bailiff laughed once more, “you _are_ a gallant
old man, Mr. Brownloe, but I wouldn’t fight with you for a good deal,
no, not me! Many a fellow you’ve knocked over, I know! But we musn’t
waste too much time, for I’ve got to be back at the court at 11.30, and
here is a copy of the summons, and a copy of the judge’s order.” He
calmly offered the documents to old John.
Old John punched a hole in the judge’s order and danced on the summons;
then invited his interviewers to stand up and be made chopping blocks
of.
The affable bum deemed it judicious to enter into further particulars.
“Like a good fellow,” he said, in his best smoodging voice, “just
listen to me, just listen to me for one minute, will you, Mister
Brownloe?
“I’m the sheriff’s chief officer” (he never encouraged the use of
the term “bailiff” at all). “This gentleman”—turning to the sweated
hack—“represents Messrs. Jones and Robertson, Town Agents for the
Plaintiff’s Solicitor. Now, like the sensible man that I’m sure you
must be, if you will only think the matter over one minute and just
come along and see the sheriff it will save a lot of trouble. If you
refuse, you know, I must only call a policeman, and oh! really, Mr.
Brownloe, I wouldn’t like to cause a scene here, more for your sake
than for my own.” And, gathering up the scattered documents, he tried
old John with them once more.
Old John took them in his hand and savagely tore them into many pieces.
A look of horror filled the eyes of the astonished bum. He saw
sacrilege and contempt of court written all over the scraps that were
fluttering innocently away, and making off down the street.
“Oh, you bad old man!” he gasped. “Do you know what you’ve done, Mr.
Brownloe?”
“Ah knows what John Dashwood’s done,” was the answer, “he’s tore ’em
up.”
At this stage a stalwart policeman strolled along on the opposite side
of the street.
[Illustration: DEALING WITH THE JUDGE’S ORDERS.]
The bailiff hailed him by name. The bailiff was intimately
acquainted with the police of the city; and the police of the city were
acquainted with the chief bailiff of the State. John Hop, scenting
trouble, puffed out his chest, and responded to the call.
The bailiff explained the position to his contemporary in the law.
The policeman frowned upon old John, and said in a voice of tremendous
authority:
“Now, get along wid Mister Ballantyne and pay ye’s debts!”
Old John looked bewildered.
“But, policeman, Ah’ve told him Ah dersen’t owe ennerone mooney. And
mah name’s John Dashwood. Ah’m a farmer, coome here fer——”
“Go arn! Go arn wid ye’s!” interrupted the policeman, “that’s an old
yarn! Get awaay to th’ sheriff!”
Old John began to see the matter was genuine and that further
resistance was useless, and the humorous side of the situation started
to strike him.
“Well, if this doan’t beat all,” he said, with a broad smile, “an’ Ah
coomed here to th’ city wi’ mah wife fer a holeeday——”
“An’ ye’ll get it, Oi’m thinkin’,” grinned the bobbie, “though Oi
wudn’t say ye’ll spend it wid your wife.”
The bailiff smiled pleasantly again, and addressed old John:
“Well, shall we take a cab and drive down, Mr. Brownloe?”
“Takes whatever yow likes, seems to me,” and old John laughed. “Ah
dersen’t seem to have mooch say in it atween th’ lot on yow.”
“Oh, you won’t be kept long, I’m sure of that,” said the cheerful
bailiff. “You’ve got a pretty long cheque book. Oh, I’ll bet you have
Mister Brownloe!” and, clapping old John affectionately on the back,
added: “Come along; come along!”
Old John went along, and the cabman scarcely pulled rein till he drew
up at the large front door of the Supreme Court.
It was a busy morning at the court. The criminal sittings were to
open at ten o’clock. The calendar was a heavy one. It was full of
charges of murder, burglary, forgery, bigamy, robbery, horsestealing,
and attempted suicide. Officials of the court—registrars, deputy
registrars, associates, tipstaffs, chief clerks, first clerks, ordinary
common barn door clerks, messengers, bailiffs, assistant bailiffs,
bum-bailiffs and sundry other servants of the Crown were running here
and there with books and papers in their hands, and an air of great
importance on their faces. It was one of the red letter days of the
court, and a great day for the officials. They bounded up the broad
staircase that led to the temple of justice like kangaroos ascending
the wall of a range, and bounded down it again. Along the main corridor
of the building moved a stream of humanity which included all sorts
and conditions of people—people with money and position, people with
neither; people with ambition, people without any; people fresh from
the university, people who had never heard of such an institution;
people who preached the gospel of Christ, people who picked pockets.
And mingled with the mob were lawyers laden with bundles of papers
tied with green tape; pressmen trailing walking sticks after them;
doctors in gold-rimmed spectacles; inspectors of police in uniform;
jurymen, lost and helpless looking, enquiring of others where they
were to go; witnesses making similar enquiries; the downcast father,
the broken-hearted mother of an unfortunate son on trial; then last
but by no means least, quite a small army of clean-shaven gentlemen
wearing long black gowns that flogged their heels, and crowns of
horse-hair, with idiotic “pumpkin” curls dangling to them, swaggered
along as though their absurdly-decorated heads contained all the brains
of the world. In their hands they carried, by way of advertisement,
imposing-looking volumes of the law. And from out this profane medley
of humanity old John emerged at the sheriff’s office. The bailiff
opened a door which had printed upon it in large ornamental letters:
“Chief Bailiff,” and invited his prisoner to take a chair and make
himself comfortable and happy. Removing his coat, which he brushed
carefully, he washed his hands and face and combed his hair and
whiskers. Then, after considering himself in a shabby little mirror,
which he extracted from a cedar press, he looked at his watch, a
Waterbury, secured to his vest by a magnificent brass chain.
Old John sat and stared about the room. It was a cold, dingy-looking
crib, that deserved to be tenanted by a bailiff. The kalsomined
walls were as bare as blazes and disfigured with blobs of grease and
ink-splashes and pencil writings of every hue. A photo. print of the
Attorney General of the day, cut from the morning newspaper, was pasted
over the fire-place. It was pasted there in the hope that the original
of it might look in one day and, seeing it, decide upon giving the
bailiff a rise of screw for his devotion and loyalty. The bailiff
learnt this wrinkle from his under-secretary, an imported cuss who, by
similar servility, achieved the sensational act of scaling the walls of
the service in a pair of policeman’s boots.
No covering was upon the floor, but the presence of stained borders and
a number of battered tacks bore testimony that it had been carpeted,
before the bailiff entered into possession of it. “Higher officials”
have no respect for the comforts of a bailiff, except when their tailor
issues a writ against them. And then, but only then, they weep on his
neck and hold his hand in a brotherly way.
Standing stolidly in the centre of the room was a large pine table,
on which stood three glass ink-bottles labelled “red,” “black,” and
“purple” respectively, a grimy old tumbler half filled with dirty shot,
a wonderful variety of pens and pencils, sufficient to set up a country
school, and a large quantity of foolscap, some of it torn, some of it
scribbled on, some envelopes of all lengths and shapes, and blank,
printed forms galore, some headed in large type: “Jury Summons”; some
“Warrant on Ca Re”; some “Warrant on Ca Sa”; some “Warrant on Ha Fa”;
some “Warrant on Fi Fa”; and some more “Instructions to Bailiffs.”
And it was all chucked about in any order, and no order at all.
Before this jumble of stationery the bailiff calmly seated himself in a
heavy chair, the legs of which scratched channels in the floor when he
dragged it under him, and proceeded to arrange the papers “Smith _v._
Brownloe.”
“Well, now, Mr. Brownloe,” he said, turning to our patient friend with
a winning smile, “before we go in and see the sheriff I’ll just endorse
the warrant with your answers. You refuse to pay me this £850 because
you say you are not the defendant mentioned in the warrant. Is that so,
Mr. Brownloe?”
“Just as Ah told yow afore,” answered old John.
The bailiff nodded, and proceeded to write things on the back of
the warrant. When he had finished his face assumed a serious,
saintly expression, a habit he had acquired from long practice as a
lay-preacher.
“Of course you know, Mr. Brownloe,” he said, rubbing his hands
together, “and I only mention the matter now in your interests, you
know, entirely in your own interests, and you’re a man I can’t help
respecting, really I can’t; in fact I’ve taken quite a fancy to you in
the short time that we’ve known each other, so I have, and what I would
impress on you to be really very careful about is that the plaintiff’s
solicitors, you know, will fight this matter to the bitter end, and
if it should turn out after all that you really _are_ the defendant
mentioned, my word, then I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes, Mr.
Brownloe, oh, not for thousands, not for all the gold in Australia”;
and the bailiff opened his eyes and shook his head gloomily. Then,
breaking into a friendly laugh. “Oh, I fancy I can see you in that box
upstairs with Mr. Bumpkins, the barrister, at you! Besides,” he added,
“you would have to stump up a lot more then than it will cost you now.
Even my own costs would be ever so much greater. They don’t come to
very much just yet. Let me see” (makes a calculation), “yes, only five
pounds ten, including cab fare. But just think for a moment what the
solicitors’ costs would come to” (here he leaned back and laughed
loud). “I don’t suppose anyone in this world, Mr. Brownloe, could say
what _they_ would come to.”
“Well, all that’s got nothing to do wi’ me!” old John answered,
shortly; and the bailiff lost hope.
“Well, you _are_ a determined man, Mr. Brownloe,” he said. “I _do_
admire you for it,” and jumping up he opened a small trap window in the
thick brick wall and looked out upon a nest of clerks assembled in the
next room, munching fruit.
“Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed. “Did I give you a fright, Mr. Maypole?”
“I thought you were that rotter of an under-secretary spying round
again!” a voice was heard to say, which was followed by a burst of
clerical laughter, and a large banana that whizzed through at the
bailiffs beard.
The bailiff closed the trap window with a loud bang, and stood
listening to things rapping the other side of it that sounded like
hail-stones pelting a roof.
“They’re such awful beggars in there,” he said to old John,
“for playing jokes. Oh, dear me, I _would_ enjoy myself if the
under-secretary were to pop in here just now and open this window. He
_would_ get such a one in the eye!”
“Ah-h,” remarked old John; “who be he?”
“Who _is_ he!” and the bailiff looked as though amazed to find that
any person living did not know that exalted being, the under-secretary!
“Oh, he’s the head of the department—the head of us all.”
Cautiously he opened the trap window again, and, finding the clerks had
settled down to work, called out:
“Mr. Maypole, is the sheriff in his office do you know?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” came the answer, “if he’s not gone into court.”
“Well, look here, Mr. Maypole, I’ve Mr. Brownloe with me, and I must
see the sheriff most urgently.” Then, catching Mr. Maypole’s eye, the
bailiff winked a wink, the meaning of which was perfectly understood by
the gentleman, at the head of the clerks’ quarters.
The bailiff seated himself at his table again and commenced writing at
a wonderful rate of speed.
Next moment Mr. Maypole, with a pile of papers in his hand that might
have referred to all the matters in the department for ought he knew
at the moment, entered the room, and, as an excuse for his appearance,
asked a fictitious question about the service of a jury summons.
“I’ll tell you all about it in two minutes, Mr. Maypole, if you just
sit down for a while,” answered the busy bailiff; “I want to catch the
sheriff first, before he goes into court,” and, rising, he rushed off
to capture his boss.
And Mr. Maypole, the clerk, was left in charge of the prisoner, which,
of course, was the object of his entering the room. From behind the
folds of a closely-written document, which he pretended to study very
hard, he started to stare curiously at old John. Old John took little
or no notice of Mr. Maypole. Old John was lost in meditation. Mr.
Maypole went red in the face. He smiled a little; then, taking his eyes
off the prisoner, he rose quickly and referred to defendant’s name in
the official documents lying on the bailiff’s table.
Looking up at old John, he asked, with a broad smile:
“Your name is not Brownloe, is it?”
“Well,” old John answered slowly, “Ah can’t get this gentleman yere to
believe as it ain’t, and that’s why Ah’m yere.”
“You’re Mr. Dashwood, ain’t you, from Fairfield?” this with a broad
grin of proud recognition.
Old John gave a start, and stared at Mr. Maypole.
“Do you know me, then?” he cried, the light of joy rushing to his eye.
“Oh, yes, I ought to know you,” with a continuation of the grin of
recognition, “I’m Jim Maypole, Mr. Dashwood.”
Old John gave a bigger start.
“Why bless my ’eart, where wer’ me eyes! Yower father’s place be just
next to mine. Hoh! hoh! lord yes, why yower th’ one as we used to call
little Jimmy, an yow went to school wi’ my James!” And old John nearly
shook the clerk’s arm out of joint.
“I was over at your place last Christmas,” said he, “when on a holiday.”
“Oh, don’t Ah remember,” gushed old John, “but you’ve growed lad;
you’ve growed.”
“And what the deuce are you doing here on this matter?” asked Mr.
Maypole; pointing to the official documents.
All old John’s good humour had returned to him.
“Hoh! hoh! hoh!” he laughed, “this man yere” (meaning the bailiff) “and
a policeman, and another fellow as left us dahn th’ street, and a cab
wi’ two grey horses in it fetched me here, Jimmy.”
“Jimmy” laughed.
“Ah-h,” went on old John, “and the missus and Granmoother and all of
’em don’t know where I are.”
“What! are they all down with you?” cried the clerk.
“All on ’em were inside the poob when Ah were collared ahtside!”
The clerk saw the humour of the situation and broke into mirth.
“Ah-h,” continued old John, “and them wer’ sure my name was Brownloe
or summit, and ’em only asks me to pay eight oondered for th’ tahtle,
Jimmy.”
Jimmy had to hold his sides. And old John rocked about in the chair.
Their enjoyment was interrupted by the hurried entrance of the excited
bailiff.
“I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Brownloe,” he gasped, “I really must apologise,
but the sheriff has gone into court and——”
“Well, _you_ are a chump, Ballantyne!” the clerk said, wiping the tears
from his eyes, “this is not _Brownloe_, this is Mr. Dashwood from
Fairfield, an old friend of my father’s, and I’ve known him since I was
a kiddy.”
“Ah knowed Jimmy yere,” old John laughed, “since he wer’ in napkins!”
The bailiff went white, and sunk backward against the closed door.
“Our nearest neighbour for years,” added the clerk. “How on earth did
you come to make such a bloomer?”
“Oh, I can’t be blamed! I can’t! I can’t! It’s not my mistake. Oh, that
awful fool of a clerk that Jones and Robertson sent to point him out!”
and the bailiff showed symptoms of becoming seriously ill.
Mr. Maypole stood and grinned.
“Oh, dear, this is awful!” whined the bailiff. “Oh, _do_ ring up Jones
and Robertson like a good fellow and ask one of the firm to come up at
once! I’m too unnerved to do anything myself. Oh, there will be trouble
over this! Oh, let me have a drink of water!”
“That last case of wrongful arrest,” remarked the clerk maliciously,
“cost the office what, about nine hundred pounds, and two men their
billets.”
“Oh, _do_ ring up the solicitors!” cried the miserable bailiff, while
his knees rattled together like the hangman’s when on duty.
The clerk rang up Jones and Robertson, and, after answering several
questions, and chuckling cheerfully into the machine, turned and said:
“Mr. Jones is coming himself, and is bringing along a gentleman who
knows the defendant Brownloe well.”
The bailiff attempted to make a grateful response, but lost control of
his bottom jaw. “R-r-r-r-r-r R-r-r-r-r!” went his teeth, as though set
in motion by intense cold.
Old John, taking compassion upon him, assured the bailiff that so far
as he “wer’ concerned no harm wer’ done.”
The bailiff pulled himself together, and paced restlessly about the
room.
Suddenly a messenger, out of breath, burst into the room, and gasped
out that William James, a juror, had failed to answer when his name was
called, and that the judge was in a terrible rage, and the sheriff in
a blue funk. “You’re to come up to court at once Mr. Ballantyne,” he
concluded, in a shout, and rushed away again.
The poor bailiff! He collapsed again. “Oh, my heavens!” he moaned, “oh,
my stars!” and placed his hands to his head.
But just then the clatter of shoe leather was heard racing up the
corridor and the form of the absent juror streaked past the open door.
“There he is!” shrieked the bailiff, “there’s Mr. James!” and he
bounded out in pursuit. Next moment he was hanging round the juryman’s
neck beseeching him in the name of heaven, in the name of himself, in
the name of the judge, to hurry into court.
“Oh, to th’ devil with th’ judge! My watch just makes it five minutes
past ten!” growled Mr. James, and on he trotted.
“Oh, what a blessing he’s come!” sighed the bailiff, returning to his
table and mopping the perspiration from his brow. “I needn’t go up now!
Oh, there will be a row when he goes in!”
And there _was_ a row! In less than three minutes juror James came
rushing back to the bailiff’s room.
“Where’s your telephone?” he roared, angrily. “That infernal old dog up
there has fined me ten pounds! But I’ll show him if I’ll pay or not!”
He turned the handle of the machine with great violence.
“Give me the Attorney General!” he shouted “Confound it, are you deaf!
The _Attorney General_! No, d— it! I don’t want your under-secretary. I
want to speak to Mr. McBrown himself! Eh? Mr. James of James and Black
speaking!”
The clerk looked across at the bailiff; the bailiff looked across at
the clerk.
“Is that Mr. McBrown?” continued juror James. “Oh, how are you, Dan.
Look here, Dan, I’m in trouble. I was five minutes late on the jury
just now—and the common jury, no less—and this old barbarian that you
keep on the bench here fined me ten pounds!”
There was a silence, during which the conversation was conducted by
“Dan,” the Attorney General.
Then juror James began again:
“Oh, right you are, Dan,” he said, “I’ll come round and see you right
away!” and, dropping the ’phone he winked triumphantly at the bailiff
and hurried away.
“That’s strong, if you like!” remarked the clerk.
The bailiff chuckled.
“Catch Mr. James paying a fine,” he said; “not while he’s one of Mr.
McBrown’s chief political supporters!”
“And they say the course of justice is never interfered with in
Australia!” remarked the clerk again.
“Oh, _never_!” said the bailiff, with a broad smile; “never! never!
_never_!”
And the incident had hardly closed when Mr. Jones, of Jones and
Robertson, accompanied by the gentleman acquainted with defendant
Brownloe, arrived.
One glance at old John satisfied the said gentleman. He turned to the
lawyer and shook his head in the negative. The lawyer flew off the
handle.
“Have you arrested this gentleman as the defendant?” he asked, in
scornful tones of the bailiff.
The bailiff fairly trembled.
“Your clerk pointed him out, Mr. Jones, and I couldn’t——”
“I don’t know anything about what our clerk did!” interrupted the
lawyer, “but I presume the sheriff’s office knows its business, and if
it is pleased to arrest the first man it meets in the street, while the
real defendant is allowed to escape by its neglect, then of course it
must put up with the consequences. We want that writ against Brownloe
executed, Mr. Ballantyne,” and the lawyer, with his companion, turned
and left.
A cold shiver came over the bailiff and he sunk in a limp heap into his
chair.
“Well, Ah suppose they don’t want me any more, Jimmy?” old John said,
addressing the clerk.
“No, Mr. Dashwood,” the clerk answered, “not unless you are going to
issue a writ against the office for wrongful arrest!”
Old John shook his head contemptuously, and held out his hand to say
good-bye.
“Good-bye, Mr. Dashwood,” the clerk said, “but you ought to go up and
spend half an hour in the court now that you are here. You might hear
something amusing up there.”
“Ah-h,” said old John, falling in with the idea, “an’ which way do yow
go, Jimmy, to get in there?”
“Just round the corner of the passage, here, Mr. Dashwood,” answered
the clerk, pointing out through the door. “The stairs are there on your
right; you can’t miss them. Just go up them and you’ll see a crowd of
people hanging about the door. Go right in; but I don’t think you’ll be
able to get a seat.”
“Ah, well, Ah don’t soopose they’ll hang me,” answered old John
cheerfully, and, shaking hands with Jimmy again, added: “Ah’ll tell
father as how Ah saw yow when we goes back to Fairfield.” And off he
rocked in search of the court-room.
The mouth of another wide corridor leading to the judges’ private
chambers was all that caught old John’s eye, and down that dull and
gloomy corridor he fearlessly stalked. At the bottom of it be found a
staircase, a narrow staircase, sacred to the use of judges only, and by
which their Honours always ascended to the bench. For any other court
official to make use of that staircase was a felony!
Without a moment’s thought or hesitation old John mounted those stairs
and, with the clumsiness of an elephant, up he climbed, step after
step, until finally and suddenly he landed on a Brussels carpet and
stood in full gaze of the crowded court-room and the bar, and within
a kick of the sheriff and the gorgeously-gowned and heavily-wigged
judge. Oh, horror! Had the Kelly Gang, armed to the teeth and with
its hat and armour on, arrived on the bench by those stairs at that
moment the court and spectators could not have looked more staggered or
astonished. The hair on the head of every policeman reared up on its
end, and their mouths opened like caves. The crown prosecutor, in the
middle of his address to the jury, shut up like a shop, and stared as
though the ghost of all his past sins had suddenly risen up before him.
The judge, hearing something grunt behind him as old John negotiated
the last step, swung half way round in his chair, and, suddenly
crouching low as one in the act of dodging a revolver shot, held up his
bejewelled hands as if silently imploring mercy. The sheriff, whose
duty it was to protect the person of His Honour, even at the sacrifice
of his own life rose to the occasion. The sheriff had been a military
man, and was no coward. In fact it was the one opportunity he had often
longed for through his long, sleepy official career. But before he
could grapple with the intruder the latter had disappeared down the
stairs again. The sheriff disappeared in pursuit. Then there was a
commotion! Every policeman, plain and fancy, every official in court
rushed out by the front way and threw himself down the broad staircase
in order to intercept the offender before he could reach the street.
Arriving at the ground floor they encountered the sheriff in tow with
the runaway. The former had a pleasant smile on his face, and old John
was waving his large hands about and making loud efforts to explain
that he had merely wandered up the stairs to see how the court managed
its affairs. “Jimmy Maypole,” he said, “told me the way, but Ah moost
have made a mistake.” Along with a score more excited-looking clerks
Mr. Maypole came skipping along to witness the fun. He got a surprise
when he found it was his friend Mr. Dashwood who was the cause of the
trouble. And the truth of the situation dawned on him at once.
“Why,” he said, pushing his way through the crowd to the side of old
John, “you must have taken the wrong stairs, Mr. Dashwood!”
[Illustration: IN THE WRONG BOX.]
The sheriff didn’t want any further explanation. “Merely a mistake,” he
said, smiling pleasantly upon old John and the police. Then he left
and returned to court to console His Honour.
“Well, Jimmy,” said old John, addressing Mr. Maypole once more. “Ah
thinks Ah better get out o’ this yere city an’ be off back to th’ farm
afore Ah gets into more trouble.”
[Illustration: Decorative Image]