Part 5

Then Jake testified that at daybreak he saw him coming back from the direction of the store. And Tom Kelly declared that he had trailed the old man into a swamp, and had arrested him there while he was trying to make his get-away.

“Ask him, Colonel Donaldson,” whispered Kirby again, eyes fierce, “how he knows Jeff was trying to get away.”

Old Donaldson didn’t even look at the magistrate now. “Well, just let that pass,” he answered.

“My God!” gasped Kirby.

Likewise, every statement of Frank Blainey went unchallenged. He had ordered the old man out because he was a nuisance, explained Frank. He was just a loafer, who didn’t work for his living. He had hated to do it--sure he had--never hated to do a thing so much in his life. No, he wasn’t angry. He had closed up store and gone home right afterward--about eleven o’clock. His wife had gone to spend the night with her people, and there was no one at home. Yes, he had worried about it a lot on the way home. It had been a disagreeable task, the most disagreeable of his life. Nothing but the good of his business could have made him do it. Jeff Potter wasn’t the kind of man he wanted to have around the store. Women didn’t like to come where he was.

“What women--what women, Colonel Donaldson?” whispered Kirby. “Quick--ask him what women!”

* * * * *

But Colonel Donaldson, sitting back in his chair, the tips of his thin fingers together, his eyes--piercing eyes, too, they were--fastened on the witness, did not seem even to hear; while old Jeff bowed his gray head in shame, and his hands clasped and unclasped on the table before him, and his collar choked him so that he opened it at the neck.

It was at lunch, which followed immediately after Frank’s testimony, that Kirby broke loose. He and Jeff, Bill Carson and his wife and little Ella, had eaten in a restaurant; and now Kirby rose to pay the bill.

“He just don’t care--don’t care that!” And Kirby snapped his strong fingers. “I’ve been in many a trial. I never befo’ saw a lawyer not even raise a finger to save a client!”

A curious crowd had gathered round them. “That’s right,” some of them said. “He ain’t done a thing.” And Mrs. Carson, face upraised, grabbed old Jeff by the sleeve, while little Ella clung to her mother’s skirt.

“Oh, get another lawyer,” pleaded the woman, “before it’s too late. Please--please!”

Jeff swallowed, but he shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair,” he said. “No--it wouldn’t be fair.”

Early in the afternoon the ancient and supine lawyer for the defense showed the first spark. The testimony for the State was all in, and he had put Kirby on the stand. His voice as he stood, stiff and formal beside Jeff’s chair, was dry, matter of fact.

“How long, Squire Kirby, have you known the defendant, Jeff Potter?”

“Forty years.”

“You must know, then, his reputation for law and order. Is it good or bad?”

“Good.”

Then Burton Evans, exuding confidence, was on his feet. “He’s a tenant on your place, I believe, Mr. Kirby. Did he pay his rent last year?”

Kirby turned to the judge. “Your Honor,” he asked, “must I answer that question?”

The judge looked at Colonel Donaldson. “Do I hear any objections from the plaintiff’s lawyer? If so I may rule that question out. If not--”

The voice was dry. “No objection, Your Honor.” And Kirby, from the witness chair, glared.

“He paid me what I asked,” snapped Kirby.

“And what did you ask, Mr. Kirby?” demanded Evans.

The judge was frowning now--frowning at Donaldson. Back in the court-room a slight buzz of voices began. Two or three spectators left benches in the rear and, bent double, as if to hide their progress, darted to seats nearer the front. And when at last Donaldson spoke, it was as if to further the case of the State.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Kirby,” he asked, “did he not pay you, for rent, one or more carved Indians, which you sent to your grandchildren as Christmas presents?”

“Yes,” said Kirby.

“Silence in the court!” cried the sheriff.

Burton Evans turned away, a triumphant smile on his face. Then he glanced at the jury. They were mostly men of family; and now he must have remembered suddenly that Donaldson, in choosing the jury, had thrown out unmarried men and men without children; and for the first time now he must have noticed that the jury was mostly old men, some of them plainly grandfathers. Anyway, Burton Evans’s smile suddenly vanished!

“Jeff Potter,” said Donaldson, “will you take the stand?”

* * * * *

Old Jeff never knew how he got there. He only knew he was sitting in a chair on a platform, his tattered hat between his knees; that before him were thousands of faces; that thousands of eyes were turned upon him; that to the left the jury were leaning forward; and that to the right the judge’s swivel chair creaked as His Honor turned toward him. Then he saw that Colonel Donaldson was still standing very erect by his table. Colonel Donaldson was speaking.

“We will not now go into the happenings of that night, Jeff Potter, the night on which it is alleged by the State that you burned the store of this man.” He stopped and looked hard at Blainey. “The State may question you on that if the State so wishes. But I want to get at another matter. Mr. Kelly--I believe that is the officer’s name--has stated that on the afternoon he came to arrest you, you tried to escape by running to the woods. Now, Jefferson Potter, tell the judge and jury why you went to the woods, sir. Talk loud, so they can hear.”

“I went”--old Jeff hardly knew his own voice--“I went to git some pokeberry juice to color an Injun with.”

“And this Indian--for whom were you carving it?”

“Fer little Ella Kyarson.”

“And why were you carving an Indian for little Ella Carson? Talk loud, so the jury there can hear you.”

Jeff turned toward them. They were leaning forward still farther now, these old graybeards, their eyes on him, their faces suddenly all kindly.

“I was carvin’ it fer her because she said she never believed I sot that sto’ on fire.”

The prosecutor, face flushed, sprang to his feet. “I object to all this, Your Honor! I contend, sir, that this is a patent attempt--”

But the judge checked him. “The evidence is admissible, sir,” he said. “The officer testified that the defendant was trying to leave the country. Now it is quite in order for the defense to show that some other motive than escape induced the defendant to enter the swamp where he was arrested.”

The dry voice resumed: “So you were carving an Indian maiden for the little girl who did not believe you burned the store. Is that it?”

“Yes, sir. Her father said she was cryin’ an’ wouldn’t go to Sunday-school.”

“Do you see the little girl in court?”

“Yes, sir. That’s her. Settin’ thar on the front bench with her ma.”

There was a general commotion. People in the rear of the court-room stood up. The jury all looked toward that front bench, while a mother and a little girl in a blue dress both blushed scarlet.

And now a strange thing was happening: Old Colonel Donaldson, his manner still perfectly impersonal, had walked over to the table below the clerk’s desk and opened a bundle.

“I submit this in evidence, Your Honor. Here is the Indian girl he was carving. Does Your Honor care to look at it? You will observe that it is half stained, showing where the work was interrupted by the advent of the officer.”

The judge took it and inspected it, a smile on his strong-lined face. He handed it back, and the colonel walked over to the jury. “Pass it around, gentlemen,” he directed, “from one to the other.”

And now the astonished old man in the witness box saw the whole court-room seem to move forward, people leaving their seats to peer; heard over and over the sheriff’s “Silence in the court!” and saw on the faces of the jury that passed the carved bit of wood from hand to hand the smiles of fathers and grandfathers who would like to take it home to the children.

But his relief was short-lived: Burton Evans had pounced on him.

The questions came thick and fast, after the old man had told the story of his movements that night. Cattle in the swamp? What cattle? Wasn’t he a little over-anxious about another man’s cattle--a man he owed rent to? (No objection from Colonel Donaldson.) Did he have owl’s eyes that he could find his way about on a pitch-black night? If his mission were an honest one, why didn’t he light a lantern? Was it his custom to draw back and hide from passers-by? Was it his custom not to acknowledge a friendly greeting in the road? Did he usually sleep as sound as he slept that night?

But old Jeff, buffeted about like an untrained boxer standing before a professional, managed somehow to keep on his feet, to stick to the truth, though the sweat stood out on his face, and his limp old hat was twisted into a rag, and the crowd and jury swam round and round before him.

Groggy, he came down at last, though not until the judge himself had interposed in his behalf, and not until the eyes of the jury were full of compassion, and not until from the front bench came the voice of a mother trying to quiet a sobbing child.

He sank down limp into his chair, to find Squire Kirby tugging at the coat-tails of Colonel Donaldson, who had risen, and whispering over and over, his voice full of respect now:

“Rest the case, Colonel! Rest the case, rest the case! You’ve brought out the Injun! You give Evans rope, an’ he’s hung hisself! Colonel Donaldson, Colonel Donaldson, give the case to the jury as quick as you kin!”

* * * * *

But the ancient lawyer regarded not at all the frantic whispers or the tugs at his coat-tails. Voice still dry and impersonal, he spoke to the judge:

“May it please Your Honor, I want Mr. Blainey put on the stand once more. I have just a few questions to ask him. There are some details which I overlooked. I am sure, sir, that a man of Mr. Blainey’s humane and just temperament will not mind going on the stand again. I am sure the state attorney can have no possible objections, sir. Mr. Blainey?”

Followed a brief excited conference between Blainey and Evans. Then, very pale, Blainey was in the witness chair, and Donaldson was standing very straight by his table, the afternoon sun streaming through one of the high gothic windows of the old courthouse, and shining full on his thin, hawk-like face.

“Mr. Blainey, what time did you leave the store that night?”

“I’ve answered that once,” said Blainey.

“Well, answer it again!”

“I said eleven.”

“Wasn’t it later than that?”

Blainey looked at Evans, who nodded, his lips compressed.

“Oh, it might have been half past.”

“Was it as late as twelve?”

“No--it was not!”

And now once more the sheriff shouted “Silence in the court!” For the old lawyer had advanced two quick steps toward the witness, and suddenly his voice, shrill and grating, rang out, while a thrill like an electric shock ran through the court-room.

“Wasn’t it two o’clock? Answer me, sir--wasn’t it two?... You do not answer. Very well. Answer me this: Did some friends of yours drive out to see you that night in a car? Did they park the car in the woods near your store? Did they bring with them some liquor and some cards and some chips? Did you have a game of poker in the basement of your store? Did all of you imbibe freely of that liquor in the course of the game? Did you, while under the influence of that liquor, throw lighted cigar and cigarette stubs on the floor of the basement of that store that was littered with packing of all sorts, and excelsior?”

Again Evans was on his feet, apoplectic with objections. But the old lawyer went on, before the judge could speak, his voice high-pitched and metallic, filling the excited court-room.

“Is it a fact, sir, that at two o’clock your friends took you home in that car? Is it a fact, sir, that before you reached that house you saw a glow in the sky? And that when these friends wanted to go back you said: ‘Let the damn store burn--it’s insured’?”

“Don’t answer those questions,” thundered Evans. “Your Honor, this man’s not on trial!”

“He will be!” cried the old lawyer, “for perjury in open court! I am _not_ surmising, Your Honor. I can prove the truth of everything I have implied, sir. I was fortunate enough to get hold of the number of that car. Through the number I traced the occupants. Happily for the good of our humanity, sir, there is always to be found among a group of young men, however wild, one who will tell the truth. Such a one is young John Duckett, who was in that car that night.” He turned to the court-room. “Mr. Court Crier--call John Duckett into court!”

* * * * *

At one side of the witness chair that sat high above the main court-room, and which was on a level with the judge’s seat, ran a railing. And now Frank Blainey, who had been growing whiter and whiter, turned sideways, his arm on this railing, and buried his face in his arm, his fingers clutching at his hair. With a cry, Mrs. Blainey sprang to her feet and started forward. The voice of the judge was clear and compelling.

“Keep your seat, madam. Stay where you are, the rest of you. This witness has not fainted. Mr. Crier, one minute. Do not call the other witness until I so instruct you. Mr. Blainey, here, seems to have something on his mind. Mr. Blainey?”

Blainey raised his face. The glance he shot at Donaldson was a bit wild, a bit vicious, too. His hair was all disheveled. He sat limp in his chair. The judge, turning toward him, went on.

“Mr. Blainey, if you have anything to say concerning the facts implied in Colonel Donaldson’s questions, you are at liberty to speak, sir. Otherwise this witness, Mr. Duckett, will be called. My advice to you, Mr. Blainey, is that you speak.”

The court-room was straining forward now; hundreds of tense faces were turned toward the witness chair, faces strained in the effort to hear the mumbling, halting, reluctant words.

“I--I-- Aw, it’s all true!”

“Sit up, Mr. Blainey!” commanded the judge. “Look at me, sir. You have perjured yourself in this court! That is a grave offense; but it is as nothing, sir, compared with the motive behind that perjury. In order to save your practices from exposure, you would have sent an old man to prison, probably for the remainder of his natural life. I have no words strong enough, sir, to express my abhorrence, and the abhorrence of all men, of what you’ve done! Are you listening, Mr. Blainey?”

Again the vicious glance around, followed by the bowed head, and a nod.

“But,” continued the judge, “the law puts in my hands the means of punishing you. By your own confession, you have committed perjury, and perjury is punished by a long jail sentence and a heavy fine. Combined, they will not be sufficient for your offense, but they will be enough, sir, to make you remember all the rest of your days--”

And now he stopped, for from his seat, face quivering, old Jeff had sprung to his feet.

“Jedge!” he cried. “Don’t send him to the pen, Jedge! Jedge, he’s Sam Blainey’s son!”

Compassionately the judge looked down at him where he stood beside the table, trembling; then he spoke:

“Sit down, old man. Frank Blainey, the man whom you have attempted so grievously to wrong pleads for you. And because of his plea, which I can do nothing but honor and accede to, I shall remit any prison sentence which I might have imposed. But I warn you, sir, that when the time for your trial comes, in the due process of law, I shall fine you to the very limit allowed me by the statute. Mr. Sheriff, see that this man, Frank Blainey, does not leave the jurisdiction of this court.”

“Old man, stand up once more, so that all in this court-room may see you.... Jeff Potter, this plea of yours shall go down on the records of this court as a memorial to you and as a high example to all men who may know or read of it of that quality of mercy which is the sovereign good in human nature. And now, gentlemen of the jury, you are automatically discharged from this case, and I shall ask the crowd to pass out quietly, for court is adjourned.”

How many people old Jeff shook hands with that afternoon, he never knew. He did know though that Burton Evans was the first among them; that Mrs. Carson, who came next, was crying; that the strong hands of Bill Carson and Squire Kirby almost crushed his own frailer hand; and that off yonder, at a table below the clerk’s desk, a prim old lawyer in a long black coat had picked up a carved Indian and was presenting it to a little girl in a blue dress, with an old-fashioned bow strange to see.

_The Century Magazine_

“A SOURCE OF IRRITATION”

BY

STACY AUMONIER

“A SOURCE OF IRRITATION”[3]

By STACY AUMONIER

To look at old Sam Gates you would never suspect him of having nerves. His sixty-nine years of close application to the needs of the soil had given him a certain earthy stolidity. To observe him hoeing, or thinning out a broad field of turnips, hardly attracted one’s attention, he seemed so much part and parcel of the whole scheme. He blended into the soil like a glorified swede. Nevertheless, the half-dozen people who claimed his acquaintance knew him to be a man who suffered from little moods of irritability.

And on this glorious morning a little incident annoyed him unreasonably. It concerned his niece Aggie. She was a plump girl with clear, blue eyes, and a face as round and inexpressive as the dumplings for which the county was famous. She came slowly across the long sweep of the downland and, putting down the bundle wrapped in a red handkerchief which contained his breakfast and dinner, she said:

“Well, Uncle, is there any noos?”

Now, this may not appear to the casual reader to be a remark likely to cause irritation, but it affected old Sam Gates as a very silly and unnecessary question. It was, moreover, the constant repetition of it which was beginning to anger him. He met his niece twice a day. In the morning she brought his bundle of food at seven, and when he passed his sister’s cottage on the way home to tea at five she was invariably hanging about the gate, and she always said in the same voice:

“Well, Uncle, is there any noos?”

Noos! What noos should there be? For sixty-nine years he had never lived farther than five miles from Halvesham. For nearly sixty of those years he had bent his back above the soil. There were, indeed, historic occasions. Once, for instance, when he had married Annie Hachet. And there was the birth of his daughter. There was also a famous occasion when he had visited London. Once he had been to a flower-show at Market Roughborough. He either went or didn’t go to church on Sundays. He had had many interesting chats with Mr. James at the Cowman, and three years ago had sold a pig to Mrs. Way. But he couldn’t always have interesting noos of this sort up his sleeve. Didn’t the silly zany know that for the last three weeks he had been hoeing and thinning out turnips for Mr. Hodge on this very same field? What noos could there be?

He blinked at his niece, and didn’t answer. She undid the parcel and said:

“Mrs. Goping’s fowl got out again last night.”

“Ah,” he replied in a non-committal manner and began to munch his bread and bacon. His niece picked up the handkerchief and, humming to herself, walked back across the field.

It was a glorious morning, and a white sea mist added to the promise of a hot day. He sat there munching, thinking of nothing in particular, but gradually subsiding into a mood of placid content. He noticed the back of Aggie disappear in the distance. It was a mile to the cottage and a mile and a half to Halvesham. Silly things, girls. They were all alike. One had to make allowances. He dismissed her from his thoughts, and took a long swig of tea out of a bottle. Insects buzzed lazily. He tapped his pocket to assure himself that his pouch of shag was there, and then he continued munching. When he had finished, he lighted his pipe and stretched himself comfortably. He looked along the line of turnips he had thinned and then across the adjoining field of swedes. Silver streaks appeared on the sea below the mist. In some dim way he felt happy in his solitude amidst this sweeping immensity of earth and sea and sky.

And then something else came to irritate him: it was one of “these dratted airyplanes.” “Airyplanes” were his pet aversion. He could find nothing to be said in their favor. Nasty, noisy, disfiguring things that seared the heavens and made the earth dangerous. And every day there seemed to be more and more of them. Of course “this old war” was responsible for a lot of them, he knew. The war was a “plaguy noosance.” They were short-handed on the farm, beer and tobacco were dear, and Mrs. Steven’s nephew had been and got wounded in the foot.

He turned his attention once more to the turnips; but an “airyplane” has an annoying genius for gripping one’s attention. When it appears on the scene, however much we dislike it, it has a way of taking the stage-center. We cannot help constantly looking at it. And so it was with old Sam Gates. He spat on his hands and blinked up at the sky. And suddenly the aëroplane behaved in a very extraordinary manner. It was well over the sea when it seemed to lurch drunkenly and skimmed the water. Then it shot up at a dangerous angle and zigzagged. It started to go farther out, and then turned and made for the land. The engines were making a curious grating noise. It rose once more, and then suddenly dived downward, and came plump down right in the middle of Mr. Hodge’s field of swedes.

And then, as if not content with this desecration, it ran along the ground, ripping and tearing up twenty-five yards of good swedes, and then came to a stop.

Old Sam Gates was in a terrible state. The aëroplane was more than a hundred yards away, but he waved his arms and called out:

“Hi, you there, you mustn’t land in they swedes! They’re Mister Hodge’s.”