McAllister and His Double

by Edward P. Hendrick

  The Jailbird

  I

  Now it had come, he was not quite sure that he wanted it. For a momenthe longed to go back and join the men marching away to the shoe-shop.Inside those walls he had never had to think of what he should eat ordrink, or wherewithal he should be clothed.

  Over against the gray parapet echoed the buzzing of the electric cars, astrange sound to ears accustomed only to the tramp of marching feet, theharsh voices of wardens, and the clang of iron doors. Below him theharbor waves danced and sparkled, ferry-boats rushed from shore toshore, big ships moved slowly toward the distant islands and the stillmore distant sea, while near at hand the busy street flowed like ariver, which he was compelled to swim but in which he already felt themillstone of his past dragging him down.

  His heart sank as he asked himself what life could hold for him. Howoften, sitting on his prison bed with his head in his hands, he hadpictured joyously the present moment! Now he felt like a child who haslost its parent's hand in the passing throng.

  There had been a day, the year before, when his old mother's letter hadnot come, and, instead, only a line of stereotyped consolation from thecountry pastor to the village ne'er-do-well. No one had seen him chokeover his bowl of soup and bread, or noticed the tears that trickled downupon the shoe-leather in his hand. She had been the only one who hadever written to him. There was nothing now to take him back to thelittle cluster of white cottages among the hills where he was born.

  As he stood there alone facing the world, he yearned to throw himselfonce more upon his cot and weep against its iron bars--for three yearsthe only arms outstretched to comfort him.

  II

  The Judge concluded his charge with the usual, "I leave the case withyou, gentlemen," and the jury, collecting their miscellaneous garments,slowly retired. Leary, the County Detective assigned to "Part One,"pushed an indictment across the desk, whispering:

  "Try _him_; he's a _short_ one," for it was getting late, and theafternoon sun was already gilding the dingy cornices of the bigcourt-room, now almost deserted save by a lounger or two half asleep onthe benches.

  "People against Graham," called Dockbridge, the youthful deputyassistant district attorney.

  "Fill the box!" shouted the clerk. "James Graham to the bar!" andanother dozen "good men and true" answered to their names and settledthemselves comfortably in their places.

  At the rear the door from the pen opened and the prisoner entered,escorted by an officer. He walked stolidly around the room, passedthrough the gate held open for him, and took his seat at the tablereserved for the defendant and his attorney. There appeared, however, tobe no lawyer to represent him.

  "Have you counsel?" casually inquired the clerk.

  "No," answered the prisoner.

  "Mr. Crookshanks, please look after the rights of this defendant,"directed the Judge.

  The prisoner, a thick-set man of medium height, half rose from his seat,and, turning toward the weazened little lawyer, shook his head ratherimpatiently. It was obvious that they were not strangers. After awhispered conversation Crookshanks stepped forward and addressed theCourt.

  "The defendant declines counsel, and stands upon his constitutionalright to defend himself," he said apologetically.

  There was a slight lifting of heads among the jury, and a few sharpglances in the direction of the prisoner, which seemed in no wise todisconcert him.

  "Very well, then; proceed," ordered the Court.

  The prosecutor rapidly outlined his case--one of simple "larceny fromthe person." The People would show that the defendant had taken a walletfrom the pocket of the complaining witness. He had been caught _inflagrante delicto_. There were several eye-witnesses. The case wouldoccupy but a few moments, unless, to be sure, the prisoner had somewitnesses. The young assistant, who seemed slightly nervous at theunusual prospect of conducting a trial against a lawyerless defendant(savoring as it did of a hand-to-hand combat in the days of trial bybattle), started to comment upon the novelty of the situation, gave itup, and to cover his retreat called his first witness.

  Dockbridge was very young indeed. He was undergoing the process of being"whipped into shape" by the Judge, a kind but unrelenting observer ofall the technicalities of the criminal branch, and this was one of hisfirst cases. He could work up a pretty fair argument in his office, buthe now felt his inexperience and began to wish it was time to adjourn,or that his senior, "Colonel Bob," the stout Nestor of Part One, whoselong practice made him ready for any emergency, would return. But"Colonel Bob" could have proved an excellent alibi at that moment, andthe battle had to be fought out alone.

  The prisoner, meanwhile, was sitting calm but vigilant, pen in hand. Hisface, square and strong, with firmly marked mouth and chin, showed nosign of emotion, but under their heavy brows his black eyes playeduneasily between the Court and jury. Evidently not more than thirtyyears of age, his attitude and expression showed intelligence and alertcapacity.

  "Go on, Mr. District Attorney," again admonished the Judge; andDockbridge, pulling himself together, commenced to examine thecomplainant.

  The prisoner was now straining eye and ear to catch every look and wordfrom the witness-stand. Hardly had the complainant opened his mouthbefore the defendant had objected to the answer, the objection had beensustained, and the reply stricken out. He continued to object from timeto time, and his points were so well taken that he dominated not onlythe examination but the witness as well, and the jury presently foundthemselves listening to a cross-examination as skilfully conducted asif by a trained practitioner.

  But, although the defendant showed himself a better lawyer than hisadversary, it was apparent that his battle was a losing one. Point afterpoint he contested stubbornly, yet the case loomed clear against him.

  The People having "rested," the defendant announced that he had nowitnesses, and would go to the jury on the evidence, or, rather "failureof evidence," as he put it, of the prosecution. It was done with greatadroitness, and none of the jury perceived that, by refusing to acceptcounsel, he had made it impossible to take the stand in his own behalf,and had thus escaped the necessity of subjecting himself tocross-examination as to his past career.

  If the spectators had expected a piteous appeal for mercy or a burst ofprison rhetoric, they were disappointed. The prisoner summed his case upcarefully, arguing that there was a reasonable doubt upon the evidenceto which he was entitled; begged the jury not to condemn him merelybecause he appeared before them as one charged with a crime; appealed tothem for justice; and at the close, for the first time forgetting theproprieties of the situation, exclaimed, "I did not do it, gentlemen! Idid not do it! There is an absolute failure of proof! You cannot findthat I took the purse from the old gentleman on such evidence! It is alla lie!"

  It was his one false touch. To raise the issue of veracity is usually amistake on the part of a defendant, and the defiant look in Graham'seyes might well have suggested conscious guilt.

  As he paused for a moment after this concluding sentence, an Italianband came marching down Centre Street playing the dead march. Somepatriot was being borne to his last sleep in an alien land. Outside thecourt-house it paused for a moment with one melancholy crash of funeralchords. It seemed a vibrant echo of the discord of his own fruitlesslife. At the same moment a ray from the red sun setting over the Tombsfell upon the prisoner's face.

  Dockbridge summed the case up in the stock fashion, and then for half anhour the Judge addressed the jury in a calm and dispassionate analysisof the evidence, not hesitating to compare the abilities of theprosecutor and prisoner to the disadvantage of the former, saying inthis respect: "Neither must you be influenced by any feeling ofadmiration at the capacity shown by this defendant to conduct his owncase. If he has appeared more than a match for the prosecution, it mustnot affect the weight which you give to the evidence against him."

  "More than a match for the prosecution!" That had been rather rough, tobe sure, and the fifth juror had looked at Dockbridge and gri
nned.

  The jury filed out, the prisoner was led back to the pen, the Judgevanished into his chambers, and the prosecutor, his feet on the counseltable, lit a cigar and indulged in retrospection. The benches weredeserted. There was no one but himself left in the court-room. Usually,when a jury retired, there was some mother or wife or daughter, with herhandkerchief to her eyes, waiting for them to come back, but this fellowhad none such. He had fought alone. Well, damn him, he deserved to! Butwho the deuce was he? It had been clever on his part not to take thestand. Strange to be trying a man you had never seen before--of whom youknew nothing, who had merely side-stepped into your life and would soonback out of it. "Poor devil!" thought the deputy as he lit anotherPerfecto.

  Now the jury, as juries sometimes do, wanted to talk and had a consumingdesire to smoke, so they both smoked and talked; and when O'Reilly cameto turn on the lights in the court-room, they were still out, andDockbridge had fallen fast asleep.

  III

  At half past ten o'clock the big court-room still remained almost empty.Inside the rail the clerk and the stenographer, having returned from ashort visit to Tom Foley's saloon across the way, were languidlydiscussing the condition of the stock-market. A nebulous illumination inthe vastness above only served to increase the shadowy dimness of theroom. The talk of the pair made a scarcely audible whisper in the greatsilence. Outside, an electric car could be heard at intervals; within,only the slam of iron doors, subdued by distance, echoed through thecorridors.

  Dockbridge had awakened, and, lounging before his table, was trying toget up a case for the morrow. The Judge had gone home for dinner. One byone the court attendants had strayed away, coming back to push open theheavy door, and, after a furtive glance at the empty bench, as silentlyto depart.

  Below in the stifling pen, alone behind the bars, James Graham satstaring vacantly at the stained cement floor. A savage rage surgedthrough him. Curse them! That infernal Judge had not given him half achance. Once more he recalled that day when he had stepped out into thesunlight a free man. Again he saw his iron bed, his cobbling bench, hiscoarse food, his hated stripes. He choked at the thought of them. Onlytwo months before he had been at liberty. Think of it! Good clothes,good food, pleasure! God, what a fool! A dull pain worked through hisbody; he remembered that he had not eaten since seven that morning.

  Outside in the corridor the keeper was smoking a cigar. The fumes of itdrifted in and mingled with the stench of the pen. It almost nauseatedhim. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. The actbrought rushing back the memories of his childhood, and of how, everynight, he would lay his head upon his mother's knee and say, "Have Ibeen a good boy to-day?" A sob shook him, and he pressed closer againstthe wall.

  A sound of moving feet roused him suddenly. A door swung open, shutagain, and voices came with a draught of air from the corridor.

  The keeper waiting outside stirred and stood up, looking regretfully athis cigar.

  "Get up there, you!"

  The prisoner obeyed perfunctorily, and followed the officer heavily upthe stairs and down the dirty passage to the court-room. Outside, heshrank from entering. Those eyes--those eyes! That hard, pitiless Judge!But he was pushed roughly forward. Then his old pugnacity returned; heset his teeth, and entered.

  He trudged around the room and stopped at the bar before the clerk. Onhis right sat the twelve silent men. On the bench the white-haired Judgewas gazing at him with sad but penetrating eyes.

  It was different from the mellow glow of the afternoon. They were all sostill--like ghosts--and all around, all about him! He wanted to shoutout at them, "Speak! for God's sake, speak!" But something stifled him.The overwhelming power of the law held him speechless.

  The clerk rose without looking at the prisoner.

  "Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?"

  "We have," answered the foreman, rising and standing with his eyes uponthe floor.

  "How say you, do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty?"

  "Guilty of grand larceny in the first degree."

  The prisoner involuntarily pressed his hand to his heart. He hadweathered that blast before and could do so again. Dockbridge gave him alook full of pity. Graham hated him for it. That child! That snivellinglittle fool! He wanted none of his sympathy! His breath came faster.Must they all look at him? Was that a part of his trial--to be stareddown? He glared back at them. The room swam, and he saw only the sternface on the bench above.

  "Name?" broke in the harsh voice of the clerk.

  "James Graham."

  "Age?"

  "Twenty-eight."

  "Married, or unmarried?" "Temperate?" came the pitiless questions, allanswered in a monotone.

  "Ever convicted before?"

  "No," said the prisoner in a low voice, but the word sounded to him likea roaring torrent. Then came once more that awful silence. The dread eyeof the Judge seared his soul.

  "Graham, is that the truth?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Are you quite sure?"

  That merciless question! What had that to do with it? Why should he haveto tell them? That was not his crime. He was ready to suffer for what hehad done, but not for the past; that was not fair--he had paid for that.He must defend himself.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Swear him," said the Judge.

  The officer took up the soiled Bible and started to place it in Graham'shand. But the hand dropped from it.

  "No, no, I can't!" he faltered; "I can't--I--I--it is no use," he addedhuskily.

  "When were you convicted?"

  "I served six months for petty larceny in the penitentiary six yearsago."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Quite sure? Think again!"

  "Yes, sir," almost inaudibly.

  "Swear him."

  Again the book was forced toward the unwilling hand, and again it wasrefused.

  "Have you no pity--no mercy?" his dark eyes seemed to say. Then theygave way to a look of utter hopelessness.

  "I served three years in Charlestown for larceny, and was discharged twomonths ago."

  "Is that all?"

  "O, God! Isn't that enough?" suddenly groaned the prisoner. "No, no; itisn't all! It's always been the same old story! Concord, Joliet, Elmira,Springfield, Sing Sing, Charlestown--yes, six times. Twelve years. . . .I'm a _jailbird_." He laughed harshly and rested wearily against thewooden bar.

  "Have you anything to say why judgment should not be pronounced againstyou?"

  "Your Honor, will you hear me?" Graham choked back a dry sob.

  The Judge slightly inclined his head.

  "Yes. I'm a jailbird," uttered the prisoner rapidly. "I'm only out twomonths." There was no defiance in his voice now, and his eyes searchedthe face of the Judge, seeking for mercy. "I had a good home--no matterwhere--and a good father and mother. My father died and didn't leaveanything, and I had to work while my mother kept house. I worked on thefarm, winter and summer, summer and winter, early and late. I got sickof it. I quit the farm and went to the city. I worked hard and did well.I learned shorthand, and finally got a job as a court stenographer.That's how I know about the rules of evidence. Then I got started wrong,and by and by I took a fifty-dollar note and another fellow was sent upfor it. After that I didn't care. I had a good time--of its kind. It wasbetter than a dog's life on the farm, anyway. By and by I got caught,and then it was no use. Each time I got out I swore I'd lead an honestlife. But I couldn't. A convict might as well try to eat stones as tofind a job. But when I got free this time I made up my mind to starverather than get back again. I meant it, too. I tried hard. It was no usein Boston--they're too respectable. All a convict can do there is to geta two weeks' job sawing wood. At the end of that time he's supposed tobe able to take care of himself. I had to give it up and come to NewYork.

  "It was August, and I went the rounds of the offices for three weeks,looking for w
ork. No one wanted a stenographer, and there was nothingelse to do that I could find. Once I thought I had something on thewater-front, but the man changed his mind. A woman told me to go to Dr.Westminster, so I went. He was kind enough, said he was very busy, butwould do all he could for me; that there was a special society for justsuch cases, and he would give me a card. I thanked him, and took thecard and went to the society. The young woman there gave me two souptickets, and said she would do all she could for me. Next day shereported that there was nothing doing just then, but if I could comeback in about a month they could probably do better. Then she gave meanother soup ticket. I drank the soup and then I went back to Dr.Westminster. He was rather annoyed at seeing me again, and said that hehad done all that he could, but would bear me in mind; meantime, unlessI heard from him, it would be no use to call again. I'd lived on soupfor two days.

  "I got a meal by begging on the avenue. Then another woman told me to goto Dr. Emberdays, and I went to _him_. By this time I must have beenlooking pretty tough. He said that he would do what he could, and thatthere was a society to which he would give me a line. They asked me adevil of a lot of questions, and gave me a flannel undershirt. It mademe sick! An undershirt in August, when I wanted bread and humansympathy!

  "It was no use. I gave up parsons and tried the river-front again. Ididn't get over one meal a day, and my head ached all the time. I heardof a job at One Hundred and Sixty-ninth Street, carrying lumber. I got anickel for holding a horse, and went up. It was a gang of niggers. Theygot a dollar a day. The boss was a nigger, too, and didn't want cheapwhite trash. I almost went down on my knees to him, and finally he saidI might come the next day. I slept in a field under a tree withoutanything to eat that night, and started in at seven the next morning.The thermometer went up to ninety-six, and we worked without stopping. Ihad to lug one end of a big stick, with a nigger under the other end,one hundred yards, then go back and get another. I got so I didn't knowwhat I was doing. At eleven o'clock I fainted, and then I was sick,dreadfully sick. At three the boss nigger kicked me and said I had tostop faking or I wouldn't get paid, and so I got up and lugged untilsix. But I was so ill I knew it was no use. I couldn't do that kind ofwork.

  "It was an awfully hot night. I got off the 'L' at Thirty-fourth Streetand walked through to the avenue. When I got to the Waldorf I stoppedand looked in the windows. There were men and women in there, andflowers and everything to eat--just what I could eat if I chose. And Ihad been working with niggers, Judge, all day long until I fainted,heaving timber. I just stood and waited, and when a chance came tosnatch a roll of bills I took it. They couldn't catch me. I was good forten of 'em, Judge.

  "After that it was easy. I met some of the fellows that had served timewith me and got back into the old life. Judge, it's no use. I don'tblame you for what you are going to do, nor I don't blame the jury.Anyone could see through the bluff I put up. I'm guilty. I'm a jailbird,I say. I'm done. Only I've had no chance, Judge. Give me another; let mego back to the farm. I'll go, I swear I will! It'll kill me to go toprison. I'm a human being. God meant me to live out of doors, and I'vespent half of my life inside stone walls. Let me go back to the country.I'll go, Judge. I'm a human being. Give me one more chance."

  There was no sound when the prisoner stopped speaking. The judge did notreply for a full minute. His face wore its habitual look of sadness.Then he spoke in a very low tone, but one which was distinctly audiblein the silence of the court-room.

  "Graham, you have read your own sentence. You have confessed that youcannot lead an honest life. Your fault is that you will not work. Thereare a thousand farms within a hundred miles, where you could earn alivelihood for the asking. Your intelligence is of a high order. Byordinary application you could have risen far above your fellows. Youare a dangerous criminal--all the more dangerous for your ability. Youalmost outwitted the jury, and conducted your own case more ably thannine out of ten lawyers would have done. You have ruined your own life,and cast away a pearl of price. You have my pity, but I cannot allow itto affect my duty. Graham, I sentence you to State Prison for tenyears."

  The prisoner shivered, and covered his face with his hands. Then theofficer clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him toward the door.

  "Gentlemen, you are excused." The Judge bowed to the jury.

  "Hear ye! Hear ye!" bawled the attendant: "all persons having businesswith Part One of the General Sessions of the Peace, held in and for theCounty of New York, may now depart. This Court stands adjourned untilto-morrow morning at half past ten o'clock."