Chapter III (1)

Springtown was about twelve miles west of Darley, only a mile from Captain Duncan’s house, and half a mile from Pole Baker’s humble cottage and small farm. The village had a population of about two hundred souls. It was the county seat; and the court-house, a simple, ante-bellum brick structure, stood in the centre of the public square, round which were clustered the one-storied shops, lawyers’ offices, cotton warehouses, hotel and general stores.

Chief among the last mentioned was the well-known establishment of Mayhew & Floyd. It was a long frame building, once white but now a murky gray, a tone which nothing but the brush of time and weather could have given it.

It was only a week since Captain Duncan’s talk with Pole Baker, and a bright, inspiring morning, well suited to the breaking of the soil and the planting of seed. The village was agog with the spirit of hope. The post-office was filled with men who had come for their mail, and they stood and chatted about the crops on the long veranda of the hotel and in the front part of Mayhew & Floyd’s store. Pole Baker was in the store talking with Joe Peters, the clerk, about seed-potatoes, when a tall countryman in the neighborhood of forty-five years of age slouched in and leaned heavily against the counter.

“I want a box o’ forty-four cartridges,” he said, drawing out a long revolver and rapping on the counter with the butt of it.

“What! you goin’ squirrel huntin’?” Peters laughed and winked at Pole. “That gun’s got a long enough barrel to reach the top o’ the highest tree in these mountains.”

“You slide around behind thar an’ git me them cartridges!” retorted the customer. “Do yore talkin’ to somebody else. I’ll hunt what an’ whar I want to, I reckon.”

“Oh, come off yore perch, Jeff Wade!” the clerk said, with another easy laugh. “You hain’t nobody’s daddy. But here you are. Forty cents a box, full count, every one warranted to make a hole an’ a noise. Want me to charge ’em?”

“No, I don’t; by God—I don’t! An’ what’s more, I want to know exactly how much I owe this house. I went to a dozen money lenders ’fore I found what I wanted, but I got it an’ I want to pay what I owe Mayhew & Floyd.”

Just then Pole Baker stepped up to the man’s side and, peering under the broad brim of his hat, said:

“Looky here, Jeff Wade, what you shootin’ off yore mouth fer? I ’lowed at fust that you was full, but you hain’t drinkin’; at least, you don’t seem that way to me.”

“Drinkin’, hell! No, I’m not drinkin’, an’ what’s more, I don’t intend to let a drap pass down my throat till I’ve done my duty to me an’ mine. Say, you look an’ see ef I’m drinkin’. See ef you think a man that’s in liquor would have as steady a nerve as I’ve got. You watch me! Maybe it’ll show you what I’m able to do.”

Turning, he stalked out of the store, and Peters and Pole followed, watching him in wonder. He strode across the street to the court-house, loading his revolver as he went. Reaching the closed door of the public building he took an envelope from his pocket and fastened it to the panel by thrusting the blade of his big pocket-knife into it several times. The spectators heard the hollow, resounding blows like the strokes of a carpenter’s hammer, and then Wade turned and came back toward them.

“By gum, he’s off his nut!” said Peters seriously. “He’s as crazy as a bedbug.”

“It’s my opinion he’s jest comin’ to his senses,” Pole mused, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Yes, that’s about it; he’s jest wakin’ up, an’ the whole county will know it, too. By gum, I hate this—I hate it!”

“You hate what?” asked Peters, his eyes on the farmer, who was now quite near them. Pole made no reply, for Wade was by his side on the brick walk beneath the wooden shed in front of the store, his revolver swinging at his side.

“You fellows keep yore eye on that envelope,” said Wade, and he cocked his revolver.

“Look here, don’t make a dern fool o’ yorese’f,” said Pole Baker, and he laid a remonstrating hand on the tense arm of the gaunt mountaineer. “You know it’s agin the ordinance. You know you’ll git into trouble; you listen to the advice of a friend. Put that gun up an’ go home.”

“I’m my own boss!” snarled the man with the weapon.

“You’re a blamed fool too,” answered Baker.

“Well, that’s my lookout.” Wade glared over his shoulder and raised his voice significantly: “I want to show this town how easy it will be fer me to put three balls into the blackest heart that ever pumped human blood.”

“You’d better mind what yo’re about, Jeff Wade.” Pole Baker was pale, his lips were tight, his eyes flashing.

“I know what I’m about. I’m tryin’ to draw a coward from his lair. I’m not shore—I’m not _dead_ shore, mind you, but I’m mighty nigh it. Ef the guilty stand an’ hear what I’m a-sayin’ an’ don’t take it up, they are wuss than hell-tainted. You watch that white mark.”

The bystanders, several comprehending, stood rigid. Pole Baker stared. Wade raised his revolver, aimed steadily at the mark and fired three shots in quick succession.

“Thar!” said the marksman, with grim triumph, “as bad as my sight is, I kin see ’em from here.”

“By gum, they are thar!” exclaimed Peters, with a strange look into Pole Baker’s set face. “They are thar, Pole.”

“You bet they are thar, an’ some’ll be in another spot ’fore long,” said Wade. “Now, Peters, you go in the house an’ bring me my account. I’ve got the money.”

Wonderingly the clerk obeyed. Pole went into the store behind him, and, as Peters stood at the big ledger figuring, Pole stepped up to Nelson Floyd, who sat near a window in the rear with a newspaper in front of him.

“Did you hear all that, Nelson?” the farmer asked.

“Did I? Of course I did; wasn’t it intended for—?” The young merchant glanced furtively at Peters and paused. His handsome, dark face was set as from some inward struggle.

There was a pause. Peters went toward the front, a written account drying in the air as he waved it to and fro.

“I was about to ask you if—?” the young merchant started to say, but he was interrupted by Baker.

“Hush, listen!”

There was the sound of clinking coin on the counter below. The bell on the cash-drawer rang as the clerk put the money away.

“Thar, I’m even with this dirty shebang!” It was Jeff Wade’s raised voice. “An’ I kin act when the proper time comes. Oh, you all know what I’m talkin’ about! Nobody kin hide a thing in these mountains. But you’ll all understand it better ef it ever comes into yore families. I never had but one little sister—she was all the Lord ever allowed me to have. Well, she was married not more’n a month ago, an’ went off to Texas with a man who believes in ’er an’ swears he will make her a good husband an’ protector. But no sooner was the pore little thing gone than the talk set in. It was writ out to her, an’ she writ back to me to stop it. She admitted it was true, but wouldn’t lay the blame. Folks say they know, but they won’t talk. They are afeared o’ the influence o’ money an’ power, I reckon, but it will git out. I have my suspicions, but I’m not dead sure, but I will be, an’ what I done fer that scrap o’ paper I will do fer that man, ef God don’t paralyze this right arm. Ef the black-hearted devil is within the sound o’ my voice at this minute, an’ stays still, he’s not only the thief of a woman’s happiness, but he’s wuss than a coward. He’s a sneakin’ son——”

Nelson Floyd, his face rigid, sprang up and went into Joe Peters’s little bedroom, which was cut off in one corner of the store. Opening the top drawer of an old bureau, he took out a revolver. Turning, he met the stalwart form of Pole Baker in the doorway.

“Put down that gun, Nelson; put it down!” Pole commanded. “Jeff Wade’s deliberately set this trap to draw you into it, an’ the minute you walk down thar it will be a public acknowledgment, an’ he’ll kill you ’fore you can bat an eye.”

“No doubt,” said Nelson Floyd; “but the fellow has his rights. I could never draw a free breath if this passes. I owe it to the poor devil, Pole, and I’ll pay. That has always been my rule. I’ll pay. Stand aside!”

“I’ll be damned ef I do!” Pole stood his ground firmly. “You must listen to reason. It’s deliberate death.”

“Stand out of the way, Pole; don’t make me mad,” said Floyd. “I’m goin’ down. I’d expect him to pay me, and I shall him.”

“Stop! you are a fool—you are a hot-headed idiot, Nelson Floyd! Listen to me”—Pole caught the revolver and held on to the barrel of it, while the young merchant clutched the butt—“listen to me, I say. Are you a-goin’ back on a helpless little woman who gets married to a man who believes in her an’ goes away off an’ is on a fair road to happiness—are you, I say, a-goin’ to publicly advertise her shame, an’, no doubt, bust up a contented home?”

“Great God, Pole!” exclaimed Floyd as he sank on to the edge of Peters’s bed, “do you think, if I give him satisfaction, it will——?”

“Will it? It will be in every paper from Maine to California. Meddlesome devils will mark the articles an’ mail ’em to the gal’s husband. A lot o’ folks did the’r level best to bust up the match anyway, by talkin’ to him about you an’ others.”

Nelson Floyd stared at the floor and slowly nodded his head.

“He’s caught me in a more degrading trap than the other would have been, Pole,” he declared bitterly. “My conduct has branded me as a coward and left me without power to vindicate myself. That’s one of the ways Providence has of punishing a poor devil. He may have a good impulse, but can’t act upon it owing to the restrictions laid on him by his very sins.”

Pole looked down into the store.

“Never mind,” he said gloomily. “Wade’s gone.”

Floyd dropped the revolver into the drawer of the bureau and went back to his desk.

“It’s only a question of time, Pole,” he said. “He suspects me now, but is not sure. It won’t be long before the full story will reach him, and then we’ll have to meet. As far as I am concerned, I’d rather have had it out with him. I’ve swallowed a bitter pill this mornin’, Pole.”

“Well, it wasn’t a lead one.” Baker’s habitual sense of humor was rising to the surface. “Most any sort o’ physic is better’n cold metal shoved into the system the wrong way.”

There was a step in the store. Pole looked down again.

“It’s old Mayhew,” he said. “I’m powerful glad he was late this mornin’, Nelson. The old codger would have seed through that talk.”

“Yes, he would have seen through it,” answered Floyd despondently as he opened a big ledger and bent over it.

Mayhew trudged toward them, his heavy cane knocking against the long dry-goods counter.

“I’ll have the law on that fellow!” he growled as he hung his stick on its accustomed nail behind the stove. “No rampageous daredevil like that can stand right in my door and shoot for mere amusement at the county court-house. This isn’t a fort yet, and the war is over, thank the Lord.”

Pole glanced at Floyd.

“Oh, he’s jest a little hilarious this mornin’, Mr. Mayhew,” he said. “He must ’a’ met a mountain whisky wagon on his way to town. Anyways, you needn’t complain; he come in here jest now an’ paid off his account in full.”

“What? Paid off? Is that so, Nelson?”

Floyd nodded, and then bent more closely over the ledger. “Yes, he paid up to date.”

“Well, that’s queer—or I am, one or the other. Why, boys, I had that fellow on my dead-list. I didn’t think he’d ever raise any money, and if he did I had no idea it would drift our way.”

Floyd left the desk and reached for his hat. Pole was watching him closely.

“Post-office?” he asked.

“Yes.” The two walked part of the way to the front door and paused. Joe Peters was attending a man on the grocery side of the house, and a young woman neatly dressed, with a pretty figure and graceful movement, stood waiting her turn.

“By gum,” Pole exclaimed under his breath, “that’s my little neighbor, Cynthia Porter—the purtiest, neatest an’ best little trick that ever wore a bonnet. I needn’t tell you that, though, you old scamp. You’ve already found it out. Go wait on ’er, Nelson. Don’t keep ’er standin’ thar.”

Pole sat on a bag of coffee and his friend went to the girl.

“Good morning, Miss Cynthia,” he said, his hat in his hand. “Peters seems busy. I don’t know much about the stock, but if you’ll tell me what you want I’ll look for it.”

Turning, she stared at him, her big brown eyes under their long lashes wide open as if in surprise.

“Why—why—” She seemed to be making a valiant effort at self-control, and then he noticed that her voice was quivering and that she was quite pale.

“I really didn’t want to buy anything,” she said. “Mother sent me to tell Mr. Peters that she couldn’t possibly have the butter ready before tomorrow.”

“Oh, the butter!” Floyd said, studying her face and manner in perplexity.

“Yes,” the girl went on, “she promised to have ten pounds ready to send to Darley, but the calves got to the cows and spoiled everything. That threw her at least a day behind.”

“Oh, that don’t make a bit o’ difference to us, Miss Cynthia,” the clerk cried out from the scales, where he was weighing a parcel of sugar. “Our wagon ain’t going over till Saturday, nohow.”

“Well, she will certainly be glad,” the girl returned in a tone of relief, and she moved toward the door. Floyd, still wondering, went with her to the sidewalk.

“You look pale,” he said tentatively, “and—and, well, the truth is, I have never seen you just this way, Cynthia. Have you been having more trouble at home? Is your mother still determined that we sha’n’t have any more of those delightful buggy-rides?”

“It wasn’t that—_today_,” she said, her eyes raised to his in a glance that, somehow, went straight to his heart. “I’ll tell you. As I came on, I had just reached Sim Tompkins’s field, where he was planting corn and burning stumps, when a negro—one of Captain Duncan’s hands—passed on a mule. I didn’t hear what he said, but when I came to Sim he had stopped plowing and was leaning over the fence saying, ‘Awful, horrible!’ and so on. I asked him what had happened and he told me—” she dropped her eyes, her words hung in her throat and she put a slender, tapering, though firm and sun-browned, hand to her lips.

“Go on,” Floyd urged her, “Tompkins said——”

“He said,” the girl swallowed, “that you and Jeff Wade had had words in front of the store and that Wade had shot and killed you. I—I—didn’t stop to inquire of anyone—I thought it was true—and came on here. When I saw you just then absolutely unharmed I—I—of course—it surprised me—or—I mean——”

“How ridiculous!” He laughed mechanically. “There must be some mistake, Cynthia. People always get things crooked. That shows how little truth there is in reports. Wade came in here and paid his bill, and did not even speak to me or I to him.”

“But I heard pistol shots myself away down the road,” said the girl, “and as I came in I saw a group of men right there. They were pointing down at the sidewalk, and one of them said, ‘He stood right there and fired three times.’”

Floyd laughed again, while her lynx eyes slowly probed his face. He pointed at the court-house door. “Cynthia, do you see that envelope? Wade was shooting at it. I haven’t been over to see yet, but they say he put three balls close together in its centre. We ought to incorporate this place into a town so that a thing of that sort wouldn’t be allowed.”

“Oh, that was it!” Cynthia exclaimed in a full breath of relief. “I suppose you think I’m a goose to be so scared at nothing.”

Floyd’s face clouded over, his eyes went down. A customer was going into the store, and he walked on to the street corner with her before replying. Then he said tenderly: “I’m glad, though, Cynthia, that you felt badly, as I see you did, when you thought I was done for. Good-bye; I shall see you again some way, I hope, before long, even if your mother does object.”

As they walked away out of his sight Pole Baker lowered his shaggy head to his brawny hands, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Fool!” he exclaimed. “Right now with his head in the very jaws o’ death he goes on talkin’ sweet stuff to women. A purty face, a soft voice an’ a pair o’ dreamy eyes would lead that man right into the fire o’ hell itself. But that hain’t the p’int. Pole Baker, he’s yore friend, an’ Jeff Wade is a-goin’ to kill ’im jest as shore as preachin’.”

When Pole left the store he saw nothing of Floyd, but he noticed something else. He was passing Thigpen’s bar and through the open doorway he caught sight of a row of bottles behind the counter. A seductive, soothing odor greeted him; there was a merry clicking of billiard balls in the rear, the joyous thumping of cues on the floor and merry laughter. Pole hesitated and then plunged in. At any rate, he told himself, one drink would steady his nerves and show him some way, perhaps, to rescue Floyd from his overhanging peril. Pole took his drink and sat down. Then a friend came in and gave him two or three more. Another of Pole’s sprees was beginning.

(_To be continued._)

_When Beauty Is a Fatal Gift_

CRAWFORD—It seems to be impossible to convict a pretty woman of a capital crime.

CRABSHAW—It wouldn’t be if they allowed women to serve on the jury.

* * * * *

_Still Hope_

JAGGLES—Even the doctors can’t kill off the mosquitoes.

WAGGLES—Perhaps they haven’t tried the same methods they use on the human race.

* * * * *

_All for the Best_

SMITH—What do you think of the outcry against the childless rich?

BROWN—I don’t blame them. Look how their children turn out.

_How I Dined With President Grant_

BY B. F. RILEY

It was in November, 1875. At that time I was a student in Crozer Theological Seminary, near Philadelphia. The country was just rallying from the effects of a long and disastrous war, and as the centenary of the nation would occur the following year, preparations were being made for the celebration of the event by a great exposition, which was to be held the next year in the City of Brotherly Love. This was the first of our great American expositions. It will be remembered that this was called the Centennial Exposition.

General Hawley, now a senator from Connecticut, was made the superintendent of this first great national undertaking in the way of expositions. In order to procure an adequate appropriation from Congress, General Hawley and the Centennial Commission conceived the plan of bringing to Philadelphia all the dignitaries and celebrities from Washington. They were to be shown the grounds and the unfinished buildings, as well as the scope of the mammoth undertaking. It was further proposed that the people of Philadelphia should give a banquet to the distinguished visitors from Washington. This banquet was given in Horticultural Hall, the only building that was sufficiently completed for such a function. The sound of thousands of hammers and the swish of many saws resounded throughout the Centennial grounds in Fairmount Park.

A magnificent train was to bring the distinguished guests from Washington, and it was to arrive in Philadelphia at a given hour of the evening. President Grant and his Cabinet, both branches of Congress and the judges of the Supreme Court were to constitute the excursion. They were of course the guests of the city of Philadelphia, and on their arrival were driven direct to the hotels. As might naturally be expected, such an event and occasion set the city all agog, and the Philadelphia press was filled with the manner of their coming as well as the purpose. Public excitement ran high, and the excursion was the subject of universal comment.

At that time I was an occasional correspondent of two Alabama papers, one a religious journal and the other a secular one. Aware that this was the most favorable opportunity I should ever have for seeing so many of our distinguished men, I resolved to go to Philadelphia, and, if possible, come into contact with them. No better plan was suggested than to present myself as a member of the press. I imagined that there would not be the slightest difficulty in accomplishing this, and that all that was needed was to represent myself as such, and the opportunity sought of mingling with the great would be at once afforded. Decking myself in my best garb, which was none the better for its long service, I hied away to the city, fifteen miles distant, on reaching which the suggestion of a lean purse was followed in going to a cheap boarding-house.

After a scanty supper I went to the chief hotels where the great guests were already arriving, bought an evening paper for two cents, and found that a committee of citizens had been appointed to give information to all strangers relative to the trip and the banquet of the next day, which committee was to be known by the red rosettes which they wore. I threaded my way as best I could through the jammed corridors of the hotel, jostling with army officers in brilliant uniforms, and elegantly dressed statesmen, until one of the committee wearing a rosette was found.

Without apology, and perhaps in rather an assertive way, I began in a direct manner, telling him who I was, what I was, and what I wanted as a representative of the Southern press. In reply to his question as to what papers I represented, I frankly told him, when he asked for my credentials. But these were in the vocative, and so I could produce none. He eyed me very closely and with a distrustful look while I sought to atone for the absence of credentials by telling him that, being in the city at the time of learning fully of the event, I had not the means of obtaining the desired credentials. After hearing my statement he told me that he feared nothing could be done, and bluntly gave me to understand that he could do nothing. Once again I met him in the jam, but he declined to notice me, of course.

Going across the street to the other hotel, I mingled with the crowd, and came upon two members of the committee standing together. I presented my request to them, and they said that they were members of the Philadelphia press and gave me a most cordial reception. When they asked for my authority to represent the Southern papers, and I had none, they requested my card, but I had not even a card. They were evidently embarrassed, for they showed a willingness to aid me, but found themselves unable to do so. After some courteous explanation they expressed regret at being unable to serve me, and one of them handed me his card and asked me to apply at Centennial headquarters, on Walnut Street, the next morning, at eight o’clock, and said that if anything could be done, they were sure the Commission would be glad to do it.

Some time before eight I was at the Commission headquarters the next morning, and when the doors were opened I strode in, asking for the gentleman whose name had been given me the night before, and when I was presented to him he looked at me with a gaze of curiosity. I told my story as it had been now several times repeated; he listened with some impatience, and asked for the credentials. He listened to my explanation with a frown, which indicated that he thought me a fraud, and saying that he could do nothing under the circumstances, swung his chair around and gave me no more heed, until I more than hinted that perhaps I would be the only correspondent present from the South, and that I felt some consideration was due me, especially if the Commission cared to have the people of the South attend on the forthcoming exposition. The question of the North and South was a sensitive one at that time, and he replied that the South could come if it desired, and suggested that if I wished to remain away he did not object. I replied that the South was clearly being discriminated against in the matter, as representatives of the North were accorded the consideration which I sought. He demolished me with a single blow when he said that they came properly accredited.

Nothing seemed left now but to hasten to the hotels and see what could be done there. I accosted another member of the committee of citizens, but in no wise succeeded. Already the carriages were drawn up along the side of the street for several blocks, awaiting the pleasure of the visitors from Washington to go out to Fairmount Park, where the buildings were going up. Baffled at every point here, I stepped into the street-car and reached the park in advance of the procession. Here I met a medical student from the University of Pennsylvania whom I had met before, and I told him of my ups and downs, very much to his amusement.

I had now practically given up the hope of being thrown with the national magnates, but when they began filing through the great incomplete buildings, and I stood with many others staring at them, without distinguishing one from the other, there came an hour of growing anxiety, stronger than before, to know them, at least, by sight. I still felt within myself that I might succeed in getting into the banquet hall. I mentioned it to my companion, who sought to dissuade me from any further effort, and said that it was folly to attempt it. But when I saw the horses’ heads turn toward the Horticultural Hall, I bade the medical student good-bye, and scudded across the park through the cutting November wind toward Horticultural Hall, fully half a mile away. When I reached it, I found it strongly guarded by three cordons of policemen, standing about twenty yards apart, and surrounding the building. This did not inspire much encouragement, and nothing seemed so far away as the possibility of getting into the hall. Meanwhile the carriages were arriving, and the distinguished guests were alighting, and going rapidly into the hall. An eager crowd of gazers stood near where the carriages stopped and were looking for dear life at everyone as he stepped from the carriages. One Congressman raised a loud laugh when he leaped out and said:

“That other fellow is Grant!”

While I was thinking what I might do next, several members of the committee wearing rosettes were seen coming toward the hall. With some difficulty I reached them, and the many-times-told tale was repeated about my being a correspondent from the South, to which they listened with interest, and said:

“Why don’t you go along in?”

“The policemen,” I said.

“Have you a badge?”

“No,” I innocently replied.

“We are out of them, or we would give you one,” one of the group said.

“Come along with us, and we will take you within the first line and send someone out to show you in.”

Within the first line of policemen they left me, promising to see to it that I at once be shown in. Several minutes, that seemed hours, passed, and apprehensions began to arise that at last I might slip in my arrangements. My anxiety was quickened by a burly Irish policeman approaching me with his club, demanding to know what I was doing there. I assumed a great deal of courage and replied that one of the committee had left me there on business; and when he threatened to put me out, I replied rather stoutly that he might get himself into trouble by tinkering with the official matters of the commission. He used some ugly language, and said that he knew his business, and that he would let me stay only a few minutes longer and turned away on his beat. He again approached me and hinted that I had misled him by my statement, and that I must “get out right away.”

Just at that moment a gentleman wearing a rosette, and one whom I had not before seen, appeared at the entrance of the hall and was giving some directions to policemen about the door, when I hailed him rather unceremoniously and laughingly told him that I was in a fix and he must help me out, that I was where the owl had the hen, where I could neither back nor squall. His face was a perfect interrogation point as he approached me, and he evidently thought fast while I told him that this was a funny predicament for a correspondent to be in. He listened to me throughout and said:

“Why, yes, this will never do,” and, laying his hand on my shoulder, led me within the first door, and sent someone for somebody else to escort me into the banquet hall.

A gentleman soon appeared on the scene and asked for that correspondent who wanted to get in. I told him I was the one, and he took my arm and led me straight into the hall of banquet. As I passed through suddenly I came wellnigh coming into collision with President Grant, who was standing over a grate warming his feet. He stared at me as though he was afraid I might run over him, and I caught a snatch of a conversation between himself and another gentleman, who was obviously twitting the President on the size of his feet by relating an anecdote of a Congressman on the streets of Washington, who was trying to trade with a bootblack for a polish, and the shiner of shoes said that the job was such a big one he would have to take it by separate contracts. At this bit of pleasantry Grant grimly smiled and said nothing.

The improvised banquet hall was a scene of splendor. The walls were festooned with flags and bunting and pictures, and the floors at the base of the walls were adorned with flowers and evergreens, while the long tables were covered with gold and silver plate, cut-glass and branching golden candelabra. Running parallel with the wall on the left, on a raised platform, was a long table with sumptuous adornments stretching at right angles to the tables below. The seats of this elevated table fronted those occupying the seats on the floor. Immediately in the centre of the table was the chair in which John Hancock sat when he presided over the convention which adopted the Declaration of Independence. This antique and high-backed piece of furniture was overhung with silken banners woven into appropriate designs and a field of stars. This was the seat provided for the President. Just in front of him was an immense silver laver filled with perfumes, while in the centre was a beautifully dressed roasted pig.

When the band began playing the guests took their seats, and I sat on the seat within easiest reach. When I looked over the hall I saw that I was the only one without a badge or decoration of some sort. Luckily for me I had a seat near a Congressman from Arkansas, a gentleman who had been a Confederate brigadier. He was warm in his greetings to a young Southerner and took great pains to point out to me the most distinguished of the guests. While we were admiring the dainty souvenirs a negro waiter borrowed one of mine, promising to return it soon, and when he disappeared the Congressman said:

“You shouldn’t have allowed that rascal to fool you; he is not going to bring that back, but wants it for someone else.”

He was correct, for I haven’t seen the negro waiter since.

The banquet lasted more than an hour, and the effects of the champagne were soon manifest from the increased boisterousness of the guests. So far as I could observe, I was the only one who declined the wine. When the cigars were passed the guests dived their hands deep into the boxes and took hands full and filled their pockets. As I did not smoke, I took mine to the boys at the seminary who did.

The banquet being over, the toasts began. After a neat speech by the toastmaster, he announced the first toast: “The President of the United States.”

It was intended that this should be responded to by Grant, but he sat as unmoved as a statue. Cheer after cheer rang out, and Grant was called for in deafening chorus, but he was imperturbable still. My Congressman neighbor remarked in a whisper:

“Now, wouldn’t I feel ashamed to be unable to say a word in response to such a demonstration as this!”

As the President would not reply, the other toasts were responded to by Chief Justice Waite, the historian Bancroft, James G. Blaine, Senator Oliver P. Morton and one or two others of less distinction.

The scene ended amid vociferous songs, oaths and other expressions of drunken disorder, which were not calculated to inspire much respect in the young theological student for the law-makers and statesmen of the country.

Making my way out of the hall, I found that it was already dark on the outside. I boarded a street-car and was soon on board a train going toward Crozer, and at nine o’clock was in my room surrounded by a host of the boys, to whom I related the experiences of the day, while the smokers in the crowd smoked my fine cigars.

And that is the way I dined with President Grant.

_The New York Children’s Court_

BY HON. JOSEPH M. DEUEL
_Author of the legislation creating the Court and a Justice therein_

A tribunal with an age-limit for jurisdiction is a modern innovation. For two years one of that character has been passing through an experimental stage in the city of New York. It has fully justified its creation. It is experimental still, in the sense that two years have been insufficient to exploit all its useful possibilities. They are illimitable. More than any in the world, the success of this Court depends upon the personality of the individual who wields its powers; and, however capable, resourceful and aspiring, he cannot be eminently successful unless back of him stands a strong, healthy and encouraging public sentiment. This is rapidly developing as parents come to know that each justice is a willing and enthusiastic ally, ready at all times to join heartily with them to correct and encourage the boy or girl who has been tempted to go wrong, rather than an ordinary minister of justice who measures each infraction of law with statutory precision.

When it is widely known that the primary object is not one of punishment, but of municipal and communal salvage, its possibilities for good will be greatly enhanced. No one has ever sat with its presiding justice through an entire session without some expression of satisfaction with the Court and the controlling policy in dealing with wayward youth. Said a minister of the Gospel recently, at the close of a forenoon session: “You are doing more good than all the ministers in the city.” This exaggerated commendation is cited simply to show that the experimental stage cannot be on the wrong tack when, after careful observation, men of intelligence give utterance to such convictions. But every member of the community cannot see and judge for himself, and this article is designed to give to all a correct idea of the Court, why created, and its policy in dealing with offenders. Many strangers, upon information not first-hand, have been somewhat severe in criticism of a supposed sentimental leniency; they have become warm supporters when brought into close range with its operations.

No useful purpose will be served by tracing the origin of the Court or singling out and naming those who were instrumental in its creation. It came naturally by the process of evolution in the matter of juvenile legislation. Its advent was timely, for our civic conditions, three years ago, were breeding criminals more rapidly than at any other time in our history; and a court to deal solely with the source of criminal supply was imperatively demanded. One of the strongest arguments at Albany for the bill was based upon these conditions, and it was urged that when fairly in progress the prophylactic value of the Court would be manifested in a reduced crime rate for the city.

No one then anticipated the volume and character of immigrants that have since deluged our ports. Parents with large families of growing children have edged into overcrowded tenement centres, where their native tongue is almost exclusively spoken, and have produced unwholesome social conditions, that destroy the American theory of home, by packing men, women and children into one or two small and ill-ventilated rooms. They are without means of subsistence. The market demand for their labor is already supplied. No employment at wages can be found, and, however abundant in that respect may be the prospects in other localities, here the parents find themselves, and here they insist on staying and taking chances. Children swarm the streets, not only to get sunlight and air, but to pick up pennies, from whatever source available, to pay rent and buy food. And they are to become American citizens under such circumstances.

The fault is not with parents, who are lured here by golden hopes, held before them by competing transportation agents, but is with the governmental policy that permits immigration to go on without intelligent direction. Possibly these people cannot be induced to go to parts of the country where there is a demand for the kind of labor they can give, but their crowding into New York is working endless mischief in the men and women produced.

The records show that boys and girls who have lived here but a short time, many less than a year, others one, two and three years, get into difficulties and find their way to the Children’s Court, some for serious crimes and others for contravening state or local regulations of which both parents and child are ignorant. The child stays away from school to peddle, or beg, or get money in other ways, and, if he or she succeeds in evading the police, is hunted by a truant officer or runs foul of a “Gerry” agent. Be the infractions serious or trifling, they add materially to the volume of child prisoners, swell the inmates of reformatories, increase the expense of city government and furnish material for keeping up the army of criminals.

Dr. David Blaustein estimates that the square mile of territory bounded by the Bowery, Mangin, East Houston and Cherry Streets contains a Jewish population of 350,000, largely composed of Russian immigrants. If it contained no other races there would be a superficial area for light, ventilation, business, recreation and living less than three yards square for each individual. Now for results. Mr. Coulter, Deputy Clerk of the Children’s Court, in a published article recently stated that twenty-six per cent. of child prisoners were of Russian parents, ninety-eight per cent. of them coming from the lower East Side and the largest majority from the square mile above mentioned.

The Italian contingent is estimated at 400,000, which yields twenty-four per cent. of the juvenile arrests. Russian and Italian immigrants have a predilection for hiving like bees rather than for living like Americans. They have no inclination to go to those parts of the city where room, light and ventilation are in abundance, but select a locality where others speaking the same tongue have settled. Then begins the crowding process which drives other races from the neighborhood. Children run wild in the streets, form undesirable associations and become easy victims to rapacious Fagins everywhere abounding. The parents do not learn our language with any degree of efficiency, and acquire slight knowledge of our government, its policies or ideals. Instances occur daily of witnesses that have lived here fifteen to twenty years who require an official interpreter to give testimony.

Russian and Italian nationalities furnish more than half of the business of the Children’s Court. It is not wholly racial, because ordinarily the Jew is devoted to his family, is law abiding and is not prone to active crime. Upon this point Mr. Coulter calls attention to the fact that with an estimated population of 75,000 Jews in the Bronx that borough furnishes but few juvenile criminals of this race. He might have added that such as came were of a mischievous or trivial character except when boys from the congested centres made predatory excursions to that neighborhood.

The statistics gathered at the Court do not furnish data from which to compute the length of time delinquents have been in the city. This is generally brought out in the course of trial or investigation. I have before me the trial record of several cases of recent occurrence. In December last Mrs. Rosie Rosenthal, of No. 329 Stanton street, brought Isidore Weinstein into Court and asked that he be committed as incorrigible and ungovernable. In the course of the proceedings it was developed that the boy was so bad at home in Hungary that his parents sent him here to get rid of him. He came in September, 1904, with a man living in Nashville, Tenn., stopped one night with the aunt and then went South. Six weeks later the man shipped the boy back to the aunt because he was hopeless. Instead of committing him to an institution at an expense of two dollars a week to the taxpayers, the whole power and influence of the Court were bent on having him returned to Europe.

Another case was Robert Pries, who pleaded guilty, January 13, to stealing jewelry valued at one hundred and fifty dollars from a guest in a city hotel where the boy was employed. He came from Germany alone last August and had no relatives in this country. He had been a bell-boy at the hotel three days and used a pass key to commit the offense.

Raffael Basignano, illegitimate, came from Italy last July with a friend. He was brought up in San Malino by a woman, not his mother, known as Philomena. She came here, settled at Flushing and then sent money to pay his passage. She died before his arrival; he drifted to New York, and then reached the Children’s Court. Efforts to deport these last two are in progress.

These are types of many coming to this Court for disposition. Taken in connection with the localities whence comes the largest amount of business, it may be concluded that two factors are producing prisoners to an extent dangerously menacing the future good order of this city: Immigration laws and congested tenement centres. If there be any fault with the former or in their administration the remedy lies with Congress; as to defects in the latter we must look both to Albany and the local government for relief. The Children’s Court is battling against odds not anticipated when created, and with creditable success. Scarcely a session passes without definite results, and a parole day never goes by without some demonstration of the Court’s usefulness.

When the bill to create the Court was pending, its theoretical value had to be appraised by contrast with the system to be displaced. Its practical value is better understood by the same method. In fact, no true conception of its potency and usefulness otherwise can be realized. Formerly all children charged with crime, delinquency, want of proper guardianship or found in a state of destitution were taken to the various police courts. In the matter of guardianship, destitution and some of the minor offenses the magistrates had power to hear and determine. In cases of felony and misdemeanor the police court was simply a sieve to separate those crimes and to send the former to General Sessions and the latter to Special Sessions for trial. In General Sessions the cases had to be submitted to a grand jury and, if indicted, a trial followed before a petty jury.

There were discouraging delays. Few were indicted and scarcely any convicted. Those youthful offenders on returning home unscathed became heroes in the estimation of companions; in their own minds they were immune to punishment because of superior skill and deftness. They did not understand that escape was due to sympathy. Each became a missionary in crime to corrupt others; became a chief of admiring associates and spent his time and energy in devising methods of pillage and robbery. In consequence organized bands of youthful desperadoes sprang up in various parts of the city which were known as “de gang.” A vicious boy with goodly sums of money in his pockets to flash before and spend upon impecunious associates can do more moral damage in a week than Sunday schools can correct in a year.

Ten years ago pickpockets in the teens were a rarity; a few years later frequent arrests made the subject somewhat conspicuous; in 1900 the arraignment of several in one day in the Essex Market Court was quite usual. Several youngsters acted in concert, each performed some important part in the process, and all shared in the spoils: a small percentage satisfied the younger lads who had slight experience in handling money. Ready money for theatres and cigarettes, besides something to quiet parental inquisitiveness, is an alluring bait to a child with slight moral supervision and guidance—far more fascinating than hard work or school drudgery and with promises of more freedom and luxury. And it is such a simple matter to deceive unsuspecting parents who are unable to speak our language. Besides, the young culprit knows how to weave fairy tales about some alleged employer that head off all investigations.

It is charitable to assume that confiding parents in their simple trustfulness have no conception of the temptations to which their children are subjected, but the facts far too frequently indicate supreme indifference. I have known fathers of girls just verging into womanhood to appear in Court and testify that a disorderly house next door, or in the same building one flight down, was not a nuisance. A father of this character whose child, boy or girl brings home money never cares to know its source. If the money comes no questions are asked, or, if asked, the answers are never verified.

This kind of parent is typical of many now coming here, and it is he or she whose progeny furnishes business for the Children’s Court and recruits for the criminal ranks. The youngster having started in with some weekly amount to carry home had to maintain it. If it was not available when Saturday came desperate chances were taken which often resulted in detection and arrest. But conviction and punishment were rare. Fagins multiplied and recruits were plentiful. Picking pockets with so many pickers at work was a little overdone and larceny in all its forms was studied and operated. We soon had the youthful burglar, highway robber, forger, till-tapper, wagon thief and pilfering employee.

The old system was making no headway against crime, for the simple reason that it did not effectively operate against the source and lacked the requisite machinery for dealing therewith. Sympathetic leniency was too prevalent; the time and thought of judges were taken up with adult cases; little attention could be given to restraint and supervision. Even if these judges had the time and the inclination they were powerless because grand jurors failed to indict and petty jurors could not be persuaded to convict.

Only recently a grand juror, speaking of his work, criticized a magistrate for sending a boy of seventeen to trial for larceny because the amount stolen was but a few dollars; it did not dawn upon him that the boy was not at fault for stealing so little; he probably took all he could. It is the thieving propensity in the young, not the amount stolen, that most vitally concerns the community. The amount, by statute and by Court custom, is one factor in admeasuring sentence in adult cases; with juveniles it is inconsequential, and in no way decisive of treatment after conviction. This is the spirit of the law also that permits felonious acts to be tried as misdemeanors if committed by children under sixteen.

Treatment wisely can be determined only with some insight of the boy’s disposition, knowledge of his tendencies and information of home environment. In other words, thieving to some extent is a preventable evil, and the treatment several boys should have may vary as much as a physician’s prescriptions among an equal number afflicted with a like physical ailment. The old judicial plan, as it had continued for years, sent the youngster home without a reprimand or a warning, kept it up until all too late a hardened and confirmed criminal was the result, and upon him were visited punitive and vindictive powers. Criminal propensities are akin to physical appetites in that they become habits by indulgence. It is easier to keep a boy from smoking cigarettes than to break him of the habit after long practice. On the same principle a youthful offender may be checked much easier than a hardened criminal can be redeemed.

Such were the conditions when the Children’s Court was created, and such were the principles upon which it was founded. It has been in existence and operation since September 2, 1902. Its policies, plans and methods, while not perfect, stand in refreshing and encouraging contrast to those that preceded, and it is exerting power and influence that may be measured with some degree of accuracy and satisfaction.

Instead of delay ending in failures, we have promptness bringing results. Children are not lugged from court to court, often going to each several times before a hearing; they come up for trial not later than the day following arrest, and they do not have to return unless convicted; even then many are permitted to go home with some sense of what they have done, the reasons making it objectionable and the consequences sure to follow a repetition. The quickness with which conviction follows the commission of an offense is of the highest importance; especially if it be a serious crime, such as larceny, burglary, etc. It is one of the Court’s most valuable assets.

There is a total suppression of sympathy or sentiment during trial. The prisoner is arraigned, the charge is explained and then he or she must plead guilty or not guilty. Each has the benefit of counsel—if not employed by a parent the Court invariably assigns one; the trial proceeds at once if the plea is “not guilty,” and at its close comes acquittal or conviction. During all this time a dispassionate and methodical inquiry is pursued by strict legal methods, in which the prisoner has the advantage of every technicality known to criminal practice. The justice presiding is both judge and jury. He has absolute control over future proceedings; if there be a conviction, therefore, he divests himself entirely of pity or prejudice. With him it is simply the elucidation of facts by strict legal evidence and reaching a conclusion that is logical and just. There are objections and rulings, demurrers to pleadings, motions for new trials and motions in arrest of judgment. Frequently some bright boy defendant watches the progress of the trial with interest and learns something which, never injurious, may be of advantage. The sad and possibly harmful thing is that he is on trial for a crime; and yet that one feature may save him from a disastrous career.