Now, from the whole adventure, Watson carried away no bitterness. It was
a social experience of a new order, and it led to the writing of another
book, which he entitled, “POLICE COURT PROCEDURE: A Tentative Analysis.”
One summer morning a year later, on his ranch, he left his horse and
himself clambered on through a miniature canyon to inspect some rock
ferns he had planted the previous winter. Emerging from the upper end
of the canyon, he came out on one of his flower-spangled meadows, a
delightful isolated spot, screened from the world by low hills and
clumps of trees. And here he found a man, evidently on a stroll from the
summer hotel down at the little town a mile away. They met face to face
and the recognition was mutual. It was Judge Witberg. Also, it was
a clear case of trespass, for Watson had trespass signs upon his
boundaries, though he never enforced them.
Judge Witberg held out his hand, which Watson refused to see.
“Politics is a dirty trade, isn't it, Judge?” he remarked. “Oh, yes,
I see your hand, but I don't care to take it. The papers said I shook
hands with Patsy Horan after the trial. You know I did not, but let me
tell you that I'd a thousand times rather shake hands with him and his
vile following of curs, than with you.”
Judge Witberg was painfully flustered, and as he hemmed and hawed and
essayed to speak, Watson, looking at him, was struck by a sudden whim,
and he determined on a grim and facetious antic.
“I should scarcely expect any animus from a man of your acquirements and
knowledge of the world,” the Judge was saying.
“Animus?” Watson replied. “Certainly not. I haven't such a thing in my
nature. And to prove it, let me show you something curious, something
you have never seen before.” Casting about him, Watson picked up a rough
stone the size of his fist. “See this. Watch me.”
So saying, Carter Watson tapped himself a sharp blow on the cheek. The
stone laid the flesh open to the bone and the blood spurted forth.
“The stone was too sharp,” he announced to the astounded police judge,
who thought he had gone mad.
“I must bruise it a trifle. There is nothing like being realistic in
such matters.”
Whereupon Carter Watson found a smooth stone and with it pounded his
cheek nicely several times.
“Ah,” he cooed. “That will turn beautifully green and black in a few
hours. It will be most convincing.”
“You are insane,” Judge Witberg quavered.
“Don't use such vile language to me,” said Watson. “You see my bruised
and bleeding face? You did that, with that right hand of yours. You hit
me twice--biff, biff. It is a brutal and unprovoked assault. I am in
danger of my life. I must protect myself.”
Judge Witberg backed away in alarm before the menacing fists of the
other.
“If you strike me I'll have you arrested,” Judge Witberg threatened.
“That is what I told Patsy,” was the answer. “And do you know what he
did when I told him that?”
“No.”
“That!”
And at the same moment Watson's right fist landed flush on Judge
Witberg's nose, putting that legal gentleman over on his back on the
grass.
“Get up!” commanded Watson. “If you are a gentleman, get up--that's what
Patsy told me, you know.”
Judge Witberg declined to rise, and was dragged to his feet by the
coat-collar, only to have one eye blacked and be put on his back again.
After that it was a red Indian massacre. Judge Witberg was humanely and
scientifically beaten up. His checks were boxed, his cars cuffed, and
his face was rubbed in the turf. And all the time Watson exposited
the way Patsy Horan had done it. Occasionally, and very carefully, the
facetious sociologist administered a real bruising blow. Once, dragging
the poor Judge to his feet, he deliberately bumped his own nose on the
gentleman's head. The nose promptly bled.
“See that!” cried Watson, stepping back and deftly shedding his blood
all down his own shirt front. “You did it. With your fist you did it. It
is awful. I am fair murdered. I must again defend myself.”
And once more Judge Witberg impacted his features on a fist and was sent
to grass.
“I will have you arrested,” he sobbed as he lay.
“That's what Patsy said.”
“A brutal---sniff, sniff,--and unprovoked--sniff, sniff--assault.”
“That's what Patsy said.”
“I will surely have you arrested.”
“Speaking slangily, not if I can beat you to it.”
And with that, Carter Watson departed down the canyon, mounted his
horse, and rode to town.
An hour later, as Judge Witberg limped up the grounds to his hotel, he
was arrested by a village constable on a charge of assault and battery
preferred by Carter Watson.
V
“Your Honor,” Watson said next day to the village Justice, a well to
do farmer and graduate, thirty years before, from a cow college, “since
this Sol Witberg has seen fit to charge me with battery, following upon
my charge of battery against him, I would suggest that both cases
be lumped together. The testimony and the facts are the same in both
cases.”
To this the Justice agreed, and the double case proceeded. Watson, as
prosecuting witness, first took the stand and told his story.
“I was picking flowers,” he testified. “Picking flowers on my own land,
never dreaming of danger. Suddenly this man rushed upon me from behind
the trees. 'I am the Dodo,' he says, 'and I can do you to a frazzle.
Put up your hands.' I smiled, but with that, biff, biff, he struck
me, knocking me down and spilling my flowers. The language he used was
frightful. It was an unprovoked and brutal assault. Look at my cheek.
Look at my nose--I could not understand it. He must have been drunk.
Before I recovered from my surprise he had administered this beating.
I was in danger of my life and was compelled to defend himself. That
is all, Your Honor, though I must say, in conclusion, that I cannot
get over my perplexity. Why did he say he was the Dodo? Why did he so
wantonly attack me?”
And thus was Sol Witberg given a liberal education in the art of
perjury. Often, from his high seat, he had listened indulgently to
police court perjuries in cooked-up cases; but for the first time
perjury was directed against him, and he no longer sat above the court,
with the bailiffs, the Policemen's clubs, and the prison cells behind
him.
“Your Honor,” he cried, “never have I heard such a pack of lies told by
so bare-faced a liar--!”
Watson here sprang to his feet.
“Your Honor, I protest. It is for your Honor to decide truth or
falsehood. The witness is on the stand to testify to actual events that
have transpired. His personal opinion upon things in general, and upon
me, has no bearing on the case whatever.”
The Justice scratched his head and waxed phlegmatically indignant.
“The point is well taken,” he decided. “I am surprised at you, Mr.
Witberg, claiming to be a judge and skilled in the practice of the law,
and yet being guilty of such unlawyerlike conduct. Your manner, sir, and
your methods, remind me of a shyster. This is a simple case of assault
and battery. We are here to determine who struck the first blow, and we
are not interested in your estimates of Mr. Watson's personal character.
Proceed with your story.”
Sol Witberg would have bitten his bruised and swollen lip in chagrin,
had it not hurt so much. But he contained himself and told a simple,
straightforward, truthful story.
“Your Honor,” Watson said, “I would suggest that you ask him what he was
doing on my premises.”
“A very good question. What were you doing, sir, on Mr. Watson's
premises?”
“I did not know they were his premises.”
“It was a trespass, your Honor,” Watson cried. “The warnings are posted
conspicuously.”
“I saw no warnings,” said Sol Witberg.
“I have seen them myself,” snapped the Justice. “They are very
conspicuous. And I would warn you, sir, that if you palter with
the truth in such little matters you may darken your more important
statements with suspicion. Why did you strike Mr. Watson?”
“Your Honor, as I have testified, I did not strike a blow.”
The Justice looked at Carter Watson's bruised and swollen visage, and
turned to glare at Sol Witberg.
“Look at that man's cheek!” he thundered. “If you did not strike a blow
how comes it that he is so disfigured and injured?”
“As I testified--”
“Be careful,” the Justice warned.
“I will be careful, sir. I will say nothing but the truth. He struck
himself with a rock. He struck himself with two different rocks.”
“Does it stand to reason that a man, any man not a lunatic, would so
injure himself, and continue to injure himself, by striking the soft and
sensitive parts of his face with a stone?” Carter Watson demanded
“It sounds like a fairy story,” was the Justice's comment.
“Mr. Witberg, had you been drinking?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you never drink?”
“On occasion.”
The Justice meditated on this answer with an air of astute profundity.
Watson took advantage of the opportunity to wink at Sol Witberg, but
that much-abused gentleman saw nothing humorous in the situation.
“A very peculiar case, a very peculiar case,” the Justice announced,
as he began his verdict. “The evidence of the two parties is flatly
contradictory. There are no witnesses outside the two principals. Each
claims the other committed the assault, and I have no legal way of
determining the truth. But I have my private opinion, Mr. Witberg, and
I would recommend that henceforth you keep off of Mr. Watson's premises
and keep away from this section of the country--”
“This is an outrage!” Sol Witberg blurted out.
“Sit down, sir!” was the Justice's thundered command. “If you interrupt
the Court in this manner again, I shall fine you for contempt. And I
warn you I shall fine you heavily--you, a judge yourself, who should be
conversant with the courtesy and dignity of courts. I shall now give my
verdict:
“It is a rule of law that the defendant shall be given the benefit of
the doubt. As I have said, and I repeat, there is no legal way for me
to determine who struck the first blow. Therefore, and much to my
regret,”--here he paused and glared at Sol Witberg--“in each of these
cases I am compelled to give the defendant the benefit of the doubt.
Gentlemen, you are both dismissed.”
“Let us have a nip on it,” Watson said to Witberg, as they left the
courtroom; but that outraged person refused to lock arms and amble to
the nearest saloon.