JUDGE DUFFY AND THE POLICE.
But to return to my story. I kept up my _role_ until the assistant
matron, Mrs. Stanard, came in. She tried to persuade me to be calm. I
began to see clearly that she wanted to get me out of the house at all
hazards, quietly if possible. This I did not want. I refused to move,
but kept up ever the refrain of my lost trunks. Finally some one
suggested that an officer be sent for. After awhile Mrs. Stanard put on
her bonnet and went out. Then I knew that I was making an advance toward
the home of the insane. Soon she returned, bringing with her two
policemen—big, strong men—who entered the room rather unceremoniously,
evidently expecting to meet with a person violently crazy. The name of
one of them was Tom Bockert.
When they entered I pretended not to see them. “I want you to take her
quietly,” said Mrs. Stanard. “If she don’t come along quietly,”
responded one of the men, “I will drag her through the streets.” I still
took no notice of them, but certainly wished to avoid raising a scandal
outside. Fortunately Mrs. Caine came to my rescue. She told the officers
about my outcries for my lost trunks, and together they made up a plan
to get me to go along with them quietly by telling me they would go with
me to look for my lost effects. They asked me if I would go. I said I
was afraid to go alone. Mrs. Stanard then said she would accompany me,
and she arranged that the two policemen should follow us at a respectful
distance. She tied on my veil for me, and we left the house by the
basement and started across town, the two officers following at some
distance behind. We walked along very quietly and finally came to the
station-house, which the good woman assured me was the express office,
and that there we should certainly find my missing effects. I went
inside with fear and trembling, for good reason.
A few days previous to this I had met Captain McCullagh at a meeting
held in Cooper Union. At that time I had asked him for some information
which he had given me. If he were in, would he not recognize me? And
then all would be lost so far as getting to the island was concerned. I
pulled my sailor hat as low down over my face as I possibly could, and
prepared for the ordeal. Sure enough there was sturdy Captain McCullagh
standing near the desk.
He watched me closely as the officer at the desk conversed in a low tone
with Mrs. Stanard and the policeman who brought me.
“Are you Nellie Brown?” asked the officer. I said I supposed I was.
“Where do you come from?” he asked. I told him I did not know, and then
Mrs. Stanard gave him a lot of information about me—told him how
strangely I had acted at her home; how I had not slept a wink all night,
and that in her opinion I was a poor unfortunate who had been driven
crazy by inhuman treatment. There was some discussion between Mrs.
Stanard and the two officers, and Tom Bockert was told to take us down
to the court in a car.
[Illustration: IN THE HANDS OF THE POLICE.]
“Come along,” Bockert said, “I will find your trunk for you.” We all
went together, Mrs. Stanard, Tom Bockert, and myself. I said it was very
kind of them to go with me, and I should not soon forget them. As we
walked along I kept up my refrain about my trunks, interjecting
occasionally some remark about the dirty condition of the streets and
the curious character of the people we met on the way. “I don’t think I
have ever seen such people before,” I said. “Who are they?” I asked, and
my companions looked upon me with expressions of pity, evidently
believing I was a foreigner, an immigrant or something of the sort. They
told me that the people around me were working people. I remarked once
more that I thought there were too many working people in the world for
the amount of work to be done, at which remark Policeman P. T. Bockert
eyed me closely, evidently thinking that my mind was gone for good. We
passed several other policemen, who generally asked my sturdy guardians
what was the matter with me. By this time quite a number of ragged
children were following us too, and they passed remarks about me that
were to me original as well as amusing.
“What’s she up for?” “Say, kop, where did ye get her?” “Where did yer
pull ’er?” “She’s a daisy!”
Poor Mrs. Stanard was more frightened than I was. The whole situation
grew interesting, but I still had fears for my fate before the judge.
At last we came to a low building, and Tom Bockert kindly volunteered
the information: “Here’s the express office. We shall soon find those
trunks of yours.”
The entrance to the building was surrounded by a curious crowd and I did
not think my case was bad enough to permit me passing them without some
remark, so I asked if all those people had lost their trunks.
“Yes,” he said, “nearly all these people are looking for trunks.”
I said, “They all seem to be foreigners, too.” “Yes,” said Tom, “they
are all foreigners just landed. They have all lost their trunks, and it
takes most of our time to help find them for them.”
We entered the courtroom. It was the Essex Market Police Courtroom. At
last the question of my sanity or insanity was to be decided. Judge
Duffy sat behind the high desk, wearing a look which seemed to indicate
that he was dealing out the milk of human kindness by wholesale. I
rather feared I would not get the fate I sought, because of the kindness
I saw on every line of his face, and it was with rather a sinking heart
that I followed Mrs. Stanard as she answered the summons to go up to the
desk, where Tom Bockert had just given an account of the affair.
“Come here,” said an officer. “What is your name?”
“Nellie Brown,” I replied, with a little accent. “I have lost my trunks,
and would like if you could find them.”
“When did you come to New York?” he asked.
“I did not come to New York,” I replied (while I added, mentally,
“because I have been here for some time.”)
“But you are in New York now,” said the man.
“No,” I said, looking as incredulous as I thought a crazy person could,
“I did not come to New York.”
“That girl is from the west,” he said, in a tone that made me tremble.
“She has a western accent.”
Some one else who had been listening to the brief dialogue here asserted
that he had lived south and that my accent was southern, while another
officer was positive it was eastern. I felt much relieved when the first
spokesman turned to the judge and said:
“Judge, here is a peculiar case of a young woman who doesn’t know who
she is or where she came from. You had better attend to it at once.”
I commenced to shake with more than the cold, and I looked around at the
strange crowd about me, composed of poorly dressed men and women with
stories printed on their faces of hard lives, abuse and poverty. Some
were consulting eagerly with friends, while others sat still with a look
of utter hopelessness. Everywhere was a sprinkling of well-dressed,
well-fed officers watching the scene passively and almost indifferently.
It was only an old story with them. One more unfortunate added to a long
list which had long since ceased to be of any interest or concern to
them.
[Illustration: NELLIE BEFORE JUDGE DUFFY.]
“Come here, girl, and lift your veil,” called out Judge Duffy, in tones
which surprised me by a harshness which I did not think from the kindly
face he possessed.
“Who are you speaking to?” I inquired, in my stateliest manner.
“Come here, my dear, and lift your veil. You know the Queen of England,
if she were here, would have to lift her veil,” he said, very kindly.
“That is much better,” I replied. “I am not the Queen of England, but
I’ll lift my veil.”
As I did so the little judge looked at me, and then, in a very kind and
gentle tone, he said:
“My dear child, what is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong except that I have lost my trunks, and this man,”
indicating Policeman Bockert, “promised to bring me where they could be
found.”
“What do you know about this child?” asked the judge, sternly, of Mrs.
Stanard, who stood, pale and trembling, by my side.
“I know nothing of her except that she came to the home yesterday and
asked to remain overnight.”
“The home! What do you mean by the home?” asked Judge Duffy, quickly.
“It is a temporary home kept for working women at No. 84 Second Avenue.”
“What is your position there?”
“I am assistant matron.”
“Well, tell us all you know of the case.”
“When I was going into the home yesterday I noticed her coming down the
avenue. She was all alone. I had just got into the house when the bell
rang and she came in. When I talked with her she wanted to know if she
could stay all night, and I said she could. After awhile she said all
the people in the house looked crazy, and she was afraid of them. Then
she would not go to bed, but sat up all the night.”
“Had she any money?”
“Yes,” I replied, answering for her, “I paid her for everything, and the
eating was the worst I ever tried.”
There was a general smile at this, and some murmurs of “She’s not so
crazy on the food question.”
“Poor child,” said Judge Duffy, “she is well dressed, and a lady. Her
English is perfect, and I would stake everything on her being a good
girl. I am positive she is somebody’s darling.”
At this announcement everybody laughed, and I put my handkerchief over
my face and endeavored to choke the laughter that threatened to spoil my
plans, in despite of my resolutions.
“I mean she is some woman’s darling,” hastily amended the judge. “I am
sure some one is searching for her. Poor girl, I will be good to her,
for she looks like my sister, who is dead.”
There was a hush for a moment after this announcement, and the officers
glanced at me more kindly, while I silently blessed the kind-hearted
judge, and hoped that any poor creatures who might be afflicted as I
pretended to be should have as kindly a man to deal with as Judge Duffy.
“I wish the reporters were here,” he said at last. “They would be able
to find out something about her.”
I got very much frightened at this, for if there is any one who can
ferret out a mystery it is a reporter. I felt that I would rather face a
mass of expert doctors, policemen, and detectives than two bright
specimens of my craft, so I said:
“I don’t see why all this is needed to help me find my trunks. These men
are impudent, and I do not want to be stared at. I will go away. I don’t
want to stay here.”
So saying, I pulled down my veil and secretly hoped the reporters would
be detained elsewhere until I was sent to the asylum.
“I don’t know what to do with the poor child,” said the worried judge.
“She must be taken care of.”
“Send her to the Island,” suggested one of the officers.
“Oh, don’t!” said Mrs. Stanard, in evident alarm. “Don’t! She is a lady
and it would kill her to be put on the Island.”
For once I felt like shaking that good woman. To think the Island was
just the place I wanted to reach and here she was trying to keep me from
going there! It was very kind of her, but rather provoking under the
circumstances.
“There has been some foul work here,” said the judge. “I believe this
child has been drugged and brought to this city. Make out the papers and
we will send her to Bellevue for examination. Probably in a few days the
effect of the drug will pass off and she will be able to tell us a story
that will be startling. If the reporters would only come!”
I dreaded them, so I said something about not wishing to stay there any
longer to be gazed at. Judge Duffy then told Policeman Bockert to take
me to the back office. After we were seated there Judge Duffy came in
and asked me if my home was in Cuba.
“Yes,” I replied, with a smile. “How did you know?”
“Oh, I knew it, my dear. Now, tell me where was it? In what part of
Cuba?”
“On the hacienda,” I replied.
“Ah,” said the judge, “on a farm. Do you remember Havana?”
“Si, senor,” I answered; “it is near home. How did you know?”
“Oh, I knew all about it. Now, won’t you tell me the name of your home?”
he asked, persuasively.
“That’s what I forget,” I answered, sadly. “I have a headache all the
time, and it makes me forget things. I don’t want them to trouble me.
Everybody is asking me questions, and it makes my head worse,” and in
truth it did.
“Well, no one shall trouble you any more. Sit down here and rest
awhile,” and the genial judge left me alone with Mrs. Stanard.
Just then an officer came in with a reporter. I was so frightened, and
thought I would be recognized as a journalist, so I turned my head away
and said, “I don’t want to see any reporters; I will not see any; the
judge said I was not to be troubled.”
“Well, there is no insanity in that,” said the man who had brought the
reporter, and together they left the room. Once again I had a fit of
fear. Had I gone too far in not wanting to see a reporter, and was my
sanity detected? If I had given the impression that I was sane, I was
determined to undo it, so I jumped up and ran back and forward through
the office, Mrs. Stanard clinging terrified to my arm.
“I won’t stay here; I want my trunks! Why do they bother me with so many
people?” and thus I kept on until the ambulance surgeon came in,
accompanied by the judge.