The Man with the Wooden Spectacles

by Harry Stephen Keeler

  “Yes, that’s quite true,” said Elsa. “For even today, Aunt, it’s conservatively appraised at $130,000—and my 9/10ths share alone, even minus the $15,000 assignment to Uncle Silas, is worth a round $100,000—plus a couple of thousand odd. But Aunt Linda—Aunt—did you ever hear of a quitclaim?”

  “Whooie! Has Ah? Da’s how Ah los’ mah cottage on Thutty-Ninf St’eet. Way back, w’en you was on’y a little gal. In fac’, da’s ’zac’ly how come Ah come to wuk fo’ ye’ daddy—whut wus des lef’ widout no mama to take keer ob you. Ah done signed a claimquit fo’ a real ’state man des to hol’—an’ not to use, onless an’ maybe—an’ whut he do but ignoh de ‘onless an’ maybe’ an’ put mah claimquit on—on recohd, yes, da’s whut it wuz called—on recohd—an’ mah cottage wuz gone. Ah go to two w’ite lawyahs ’bout it. One, he say: ‘Don’ nebbah sign no claimquit—fo’ dey ain’ no goin’ behin’t o’ back ob a claimquit—dey dynamite’. An’ de oddah lawyah, he lissen to mah sto’y an’ he say: ‘Claimquits, madam, is mos’ dang’ous t’ings in all real-’state law. W’en dey is recordened—de lawyin’ is all obah! Gooday, madam.’ ”

  Elsa might, under ordinary circumstances, have smiled, in spite of herself, at the picture Aunt Linda Cooksey had just drawn up: but smile, she did not, today—in the light of her own complications.

  “Well, Aunt Linda,” was all she said, “claimquits—or quitclaims, as the right name is—are all of what your two lawyers told you. As I also heard, and as I also knew—some number of years back. But anyway, Aunt Linda, here’s what happened. The assignment I have to Uncle Silas was an assignment, unless—”

  “On-less!” Aunt Linda stopped rocking. “Honey—you don’ mean you went an’ signed some kin’ ob a quitclaim?”

  “Some kind of a one—yes, Aunt Linda! No less than a so-called contingential quitclaim, the validity of which type of quitclaim has been affirmed completely by the United States Supreme Court in the case of the Idaho and Wyoming Oil Company versus one Henry Barrows. I quitclaimed—though contingentially, understand?—all my right, title and interest in Colby’s Nugget. For Uncle Silas, Aunt, put a clause in that assignment that specif—but do you know what a clause is?”

  “ ’Cose Ah do. ’Twas des account ob a clause in mah own grandfathah’s will dat Ah ’riginally ’herited dat house on Thutty-Ninf Street. So Ah knows w’ut it is. A clause, it’s a puhagraf whut state thus an’ so?”

  “That’s right, Aunt Linda. Well, Uncle Silas put a clause in that assignment stating that, should I fail to acquit my first client—specifically, Aunt, my client in my first criminal case before the Bar—or get disbarred during my first three months of practice, my paper was to constitute a quitclaim complete for my share in Colby’s Nugget—in exchange for the $5,000 cash I’d already received.”

  “W’y—dat ol’ rascal! He—but fus’, wut mean dis disbahhed?”

  “That means, Aunt—well Aunt, you used to go with a jockey, didn’t you—in the long long ago?”

  “Yes, Honey. De bes an’ de blackest one whut ebah ride de tracks. He uz so black dat he look, in a race, lak a empty suit pu’ched atop de hoss.”

  “Well, disbarred, Aunt, means—in law circles—‘ruled off the turf.’ ”

  “Oh—now Ah gits it cleah. Mah sweety he wuz rule’ off de tu’f mo’n once. Disbahhed means, den, dat some jedge o’ juhy o’ lawyah’s ‘sociation say you cain’t practice lawin’ fo a suttin length o’ time?”

  “Exactly that.”

  “Well den, w’y—but lissen, honeh, w’y you sign’ dis papah?”

  “Because I didn’t read it, Aunt Linda. I was just turned 18—was badly in love—and rushing off to a dance where my first boy-friend was to be, and—”

  “Oh yes—dat han’some no-good Barfin boy. Who he ebah mahhy an’way?”

  “Oh—he married Grace van Sant, the winner of a beauty prize contest on the northwest side. And a really beautiful girl too.”

  “Oh, he did, hey?” Aunt Linda was bridling up. “An’ Elsa Colby de mos’ beau’fullest chil’ in all Chicago, raght undah his snooty nose!”

  “Heavens—no, Aunt Linda! Never beautiful, Elsa Colby—then nor now. The difference is that today I know it—but then I didn’t!”

  “Well, you wrong, ’coze you hund’ed puh cent sweet. An’ clebah. An’ you—but let dat pass.” Aunt Linda surveyed Elsa solicitously. “You is got regretments, mebbe, honey—an’ hahtache, mebbe—dat you nebah get to mahhy wit’ de Barfin boy?”

  “Heavens no, Aunt! For after I found that good-looking boys are interested, at best, in homely girls only be. cause—” Elsa’s face pinked almost as red as her hair. “At least,” she broke off, “when I found he was interested in me in a quite different way than I in him—” She broke off again. “Well, I ceased to care for him in a jiffy. Anyway, Aunt, that first love is always a most ridiculous thing.”

  “Ain’ it de truf? De fus’ boy Ah ebah had, he—but le’s git back to dis bus’ness. So you went an’ signed dis cutth’ot papah.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “An’ whut on yarth did dat rascal say w’en you latah discovah dat clause? As you musta did?”

  “Oh he said, Aunt, that he had just put it in as a sort of ‘joke’—to teach me my first lesson in law. It was something, he said, that of course he’d never enforce.”

  “Oh, he did, hey? Bet he didn’ say dat ‘fo’ any witnesses?”

  “That’s right, I will admit,” Elsa conceded. “He said it only at a time and place when we were quite alone.”

  Aunt Linda nodded darkly. “So he tell you he des gibbin’ you a free lesson, heh? Well, dat man don’ gib nobody nuffin’, let alone free lessons! He des tuk a gen’al chance on slippin’ in somep’n about somep’n whut mought happen—an’, again, mought not; but if’n it did, he’d hab his han’s on dat propitty. Nuffin venture—nuffin gain!”

  Since Elsa discomfitedly did not reply, Aunt Linda went on.

  “Well whut you do w’en you fin’ dat? Fo’ dat papah, Chil’, wuz a real-’state papah—an’ he done suttinly put it ob recohd?” Elsa nodded. “Whut you do—den? Aftah he gib you dat run-aroun’? You see a lawin’ man?”

  “Yes, Aunt. The best in the city. Rutgers Allstyn. And he pointed out to me how badly I’d clouded my title to my property. If, that is, I tried to sue to set the paper aside. For don’t forget, Aunt, I was of age when I signed it—and I declared, moreover, before witnesses, that I’d read it! But Mr. Allstyn didn’t bow me out, Aunt, as your lawyers did—in the long ago. Yes—in the face of your ‘claimquit’! No. He showed me the exact way to completely circumvent Uncle Silas’ trickery—assuming it to be plainly that—and to force the paper to remain just what it was: an assignment, and nothing more.”

  “He did? Whut wuz his way?”

  “Well, his way, Aunt, was simply to render that dangerous clause impotent. To—to hamstring it, see?

  Through my taking one case—and one case only—and one, moreover, in which it would be all set for my client to be acquitted—during my first three months of practice.

  In that way I would not only completely nullify the factor involving the loss of my first case, by winning it!—but through not going before the Bar before or after—at least till my first 3 months of practice were over—I would not run any chance whatsoever of disbarment. And—but Aunt, do you follow me?”

  Aunt Linda was figuring mentally, her brow creased into black wrinkles, her lips slightly moving, and counting some points of logic on several black fingers of her left hand.

  “Yas, I sees de p’ints a’right. On’y, Elsa, Ah don’ see how you would gonna know, ahead ob tryin’ a case, dat you’ clien’ would be gonna win. Leas’ways, Elsa, wid no hund’ed thousum dollah assuh’ance whut you’d hafta have!”

  “Well simply this, Aunt. Mr. Rutgers Allstyn’s cousin, who grew up with him virtually as a brother, is J
udge Douglas Allstyn of the Criminal Court. And Mr. Rutgers Allstyn went with me, to his cousin—this was six years ago—and described the ticklish situation. And Judge Douglas Allstyn promised us that he would definitely assign to me a case, right after I graduated from school, in which—through considera­tion ahead of the time he was to render decision—he had definitely determined, on some technicality or other, to dis­charge the defendant. Some purely formal case, see? And by my taking that case—and technically winning it!—most of that vicious clause would be knocked out. You grasp that, do you, Aunt Linda?”

  “Yas, Ah grasps it,” Aunt Linda nodded sagely. “Right by de tail, yas. An’ dat wuz a good way to git aroun’ de p’oblem. But yit you is heah, Elsa, ’cause day is somep’n wrong ’bout yo’ affairs. An’ ’bout dat vehy affair. All ob w’ich means dat dat judge gib you de wrong case—o’ some p’n?”

  “No, Aunt. He wouldn’t do that. He even assured me so late as last June that he would take care of me all right. But, when I got out of school in September—and set up my office—he was in India, on a trip around the world. And not expected back till December. Which meant that I must just play safe and mark time, see, till he returned. So far as, I mean, taking any court cases.”

  “Den how come, Honey, you is in trubble? W’y you don’ continue on mahkin’ time?”

  “Because, Aunt Linda, a little while ago—just before I started over here—a judge of the Criminal Court called me up, and appointed me as defense counsel in a Criminal Court case—where the defendant has asked for immediate trial. For trial tonight, in short. I was quite frantic, for as it looked to me, from the judge’s words, the defendant’s chances were slim indeed. I—I almost had words with the judge. And he got very angry, Aunt, and told me that if I didn’t report to my client by 5 o’clock—I was disbarred. And—wait, that’s not all, Aunt!—he said that even though I did report to the client, the disbarment order would be held open—and if I then didn’t report in court tonight—it would go through at once.”

  “Kin—kin he do dat?”

  “By the new regulations, he can.”

  “Hm? Well whut you do, den? Ah ’spose you got aholt ob dis Allstyn man quick?”

  “I rang him, Aunt—yes. But he had just left Chicago. In his car. On a secret mission. Giving no one his whereabouts or his destination.”

  “Hm r’ Den—whut? You called dis jedge back, mebbe?”

  “I tried to—yes. But got only his man. And when I asked for the judge himself, his man said he’d gone out for a walk. To be gone till after 7 o’clock tonight.”

  “Hm. Did he say whah you could cotch him?”

  “Why, Aunt—this Judge couldn’t go for a walk! He has arthri—that is rheumatism in one knee, and gout in one foot. He simply won’t see me, that’s all; and is determined to put that disbarment order through if I don’t comply with his demands.”

  “Hm? Da’s a complication a’right. Consid’an’ dat clause. An’—but if’n you wuz disbahhed now, Honey, cu’d you an’ways git ondisbahhed?”

  “Undisbarred, Aunt? No! Only reinstated. There’s no such thing as undisbarment. If you’re disbarred—you’re dis­barred.”

  “Ah see. An’ he gonna do dis if’n you don’ repoht to yo’ clien’ by 5 o’clock?”

  “So he said—angrily—positively—almost apoplectically.”

  “Hm. An’ dis beah client, he’s guilty, eh?”

  “Doubtlessly, Aunt, as I have the best reason in the world to believe—based on later information I’ve gotten.”

  Aunt Linda pondered troubledly.

  “But Ah wondah w’y dat jedge he so hell-set to p’int des a kid lak you?”

  “Why, I presume, Aunt, he was going over the roster of new attorneys appointed to the Bar, and—”

  “No, he wuz’n,” insisted Aunt Linda. “Dey’s somep’n undah dat! Whut dis jedge’s name?”

  “Judge Penworth, Aunt Linda.”

  “Jedge—Penwu’th?” Aunt Linda exclaimed. “Now is he fus’ name Hilbilly—O’ Hilton—somep’n?”

  “Why yes, Aunt. It’s Judge Hilford Penworth.”

  “Lan’ sakes, Chil’! Ah see it all now. You ain’ got no chance ob arguin’ dat jedge out ob dat app’intment. An’ you nebah did hab.”

  “I didn’t? But how—”

  “ ’Cause, Chil’, yo’ Unc’ Silas, he done got—but fus’—dey is one link whut still missin’ in mah mind—but not ye’s. Fo’ you ain’ seen nothin’ whut Ah sees. Sense—but heah is de link: Is dey an’buddah ’tall, Chil’, whut knowed you wuz nullerfrying dat dang’ous clause by playin’ possum till dis heah Jedge Allstyn git back fm India, at w’ich time he gonna gib you des a cut-an’-dried case to try—one de winnin’ ob w’ich is all in de bag already—no, wait, Elsa—is dey an’body else know dat, whut would o’ could hab tol’ yo’ Unc’ Silas?”

  “Well,” replied Elsa, “the only person, outside of my lawyer—and now you—and Judge Douglas Allstyn himself, in India—who knows the fact, is my landlady, Mrs. Hirschberg.”

  “Hm? Jewisher, eh? An’ yo’ Unc’ Silas’ son-in-law a Jewisher? Well, whut coffee-gabbin’ societies do she belong to?”

  “Coffee-gabbing soc—Oh, I get you, Aunt. Well, she belongs to a flock of them. One is known as the ‘Ladies’ Weekly Social Club,’ and another is the ‘Ladies’ Self-Improvement Society,’ and anoth—”

  “Huh! Don’ go no fuddah! Spos’n Ah wuz to tell you dat Manny’s mama, Mrs. Lena Levinstein, de wife ob his papa whut int’rested in all dat Norfwes’ Side proputty, she ’long to de Ladies’ Self-Improbement Club today. W’ich ’zackly is whut Ah’s tellin’ you! Fo’ Ah huhd huh tryin’ to git Bella to ’long to it—on’y ob cose, Bella she too lazy to draw huh breath—let alone git out to any meetin’s. All right. Well—fus’ ob all—now dat Ah tells you dis far’—is it clah ’nough to you how yo’ possum-playin’ has done got to yo’ Unc’ Silas?”

  Elsa was thoughtful. “Oh Auntie, Mrs. Hirschberg wouldn’t reveal—still—” And Elsa reflected upon the day she had been home ill, and had seen the tongues of at least the small and select Ladies’ Weekly Social Club, that day meet­ing at Mrs. Hirschberg’s home, actually go galloping—like strychnine-injected race horses—after Mrs. Hirschberg’s one-hour-steeped coffee had commenced to flow down their throats. Never before in her life had Elsa seen a phenomenon anything like it. And—

  “Well,” was all she could say, “conceding even, Aunt, that Mrs. Hirschberg has unwillingly spilled—to Mrs. Levinstein —that her roomer is playing possum, as you put it, in a matter involving that estate ownership, and that the information has traveled thence to Mr. Levinstein, somehow, thence to Manny, and thence to Uncle Silas—there has still been nothing that Uncle Silas could do personally to change my course of action, or to alter circumstances for me.”

  “No! Well, dey is—plentah. Yo’ unc’ des got a mohgage on dat jedge’s house, da’s all, an’—”

  “Oh, come—come, Aunt Linda! I’ll accept the possibility of Mrs. Hirschberg spilling an unfortunate hint of the situation to Mrs. Levinstein Senior; but as for mortgages—why, mortgages, Aunt, as a source of pressure against people, went out with the last melodrama!”

  “Oh, Ah see,” nodded Aunt Linda, most humbly. Sus­piciously so! “Dey has wen’ out, has dey, so fah as pressin’ peoples go? Well—do tell! Count of bein’ sohta ig’nant lak, Elsa, Ah didn’t know dat at all, an’—but by de way, Chil’, w’ud yo’ mind tellin’ me how many peoples in Chicago succeeds in redeemin’ they proputty, once fo’closah suit is act’ally file’ by de mohgage holdah?”

  “Well, to be frank, Aunt, statistics are that, in Cook County, less than 5 in 100 so succeed. Because of the huge legal fees, and the Master-in-Chancery fee, and so forth, added on to the mortgage indebtedness. But—”

  “An’ mebbe, Chil’,” persisted Aunt Linda, humbly, “you’d tell dis
ig’nant ’ooman whut de statiticks is ’bout how many peoples ob de nin’y-fi’, in de hund’ed, gits somet’in’ out ob dey equity, w’en de place is sol’ undah de hammahr? O’ is de hammah gone out too—wid de last melldrammerer ?”

  Elsa gave a half laugh. For Aunt Linda’s demeanor was, even to her, suspiciously humble. “No, Aunt, the hammer still actually falls—on foreclosed property. And—but as to your question, only 1 out of the remaining 95—or practically 1 per cent of the whole—gets anything at all out of the sale, because nobody bids foreclosed Cook County property in. Because of the delay, you see, in acquiring transferable title. In fact, Aunt, a party who gets foreclosed in Cook County is darned lucky not to get a deficiency judgment levied against him—or her—as the case may be.”

  “Don’ know whut defishincy jedgment is,” proclaimed Aunt Linda, “but de fu’s paht ob whut you tell me is plenty ’pohtant by itself. Well den,”—she rocked gently—“summin’ it all up, a fo’closah suit, it mean—heah in Chicago—goo’night, don’ it?”

  And she fixed Elsa with her gaze.

  “We’ll—we-ell—” offered Elsa, “yes, it really does. But—”

  “An’ oh c’ose,” said Aunt Linda mildly, “peoples don’t min’ packin’ up dey clothes an’ tings an’ gittin’ out ob houses whut dey has lovin’ly built de’sevves wid lil gahdens whut dey wives an’ children’s hab laid out! And ob co’se dey don’ mind gibbing up places eider whah big st’eet improbements goin’ come some day—an’ lettin’ somebody else git de big condamnation fees? No!” And now Aunt Linda’s mildness dropped suddenly. “Well, whut you has des’ tol’ me is ’cisely whut Ah has been tryin’ to convey to you. Dat moh’gages presses people des as bad today as dey did w’en de fus’ one was drawed up by de fus man whut got his eagle eye on somebuddy else’s propitty, o’ else des tryin’ to git intrust on somebody else’s bein’ in trubble. Wheneber dat fus mohgage wuz drawed up! An’ specially do dey presses people today, Chil’, w’en nobody cain’t git no money nowhah. Hah!” Aunt Linda laughed hollowly. “So—dey is gone out, is dey? Wid de ol’ mellerdrammerers? Well Chil’, befo’ you gits done wid life, you is gonna fin’ yo’sef centahed in mo’ an’ one mellerdrammerer whut is mo’ mellerdrammertic dan de ones whut played on dat ol’ showboat, whah I sit once in de back th’ee rows whah niggahs kin sit. Fac’ is—ifn you axes me—you is act’ally libbin’ a mellerdrammerer rahght dis minut’—and don’ eben know it. Dat’s whut! An’—but les us git down to hahd fac’s. Now Ah says yo’ Unc’ Silas done got a mohgage on dat jedge’s house. An’ you laffs at me. So—do dat Jedge lib on Prairie Abenoo?”