HIS HONOUR.[A]

HIS HONOUR.[A]

Van was out of temper. Van, the calm squelcher of office boys—the recognised saviour of managing clerks—the patient instructor of sophomoric attorneys—the courteous Guide, Philosopher and Friend for all busy members of the New York Bar—Van, whose serenity and sanity had withstood some thirty years of service as Chambers Clerk, was in ill humour.

Unusual as this was, it might have been explained if the Judge who throws papers on the floor had been upon the Bench. But his Honour was presiding over another Court. Martin, therefore, put it down to the weather, which was hot, and resigned himself to waiting, which was wearisome.

The Court Room was stuffy as usual, and crowded as always. Martin languidly studied the lawyers about him, trying to guess the kind of business each represented. Here he prophesied a struggle for “costs,” and there a contest for “time.” In one face he read the cunning of the technical trickster, in another the earnest belief in a Cause, and idly took to betting with himself on his prognostications.

The low droning of voices had a soothing note, and the hot atmosphere of the room soon set him nodding. A moment more and he was out of the Court, far away from the lawyers—at the east end of Long Island, with the strength and vigour of early Autumn in the air. For some seconds he was dimly conscious of a man standing near him asking an oft-repeated question. Then he woke with a start and saw Allison.

“Do you always sleep with your eyes open?”

“Ye—yes,” he yawned, rubbing the optics in question, “it’s a trick I learned from a front seat and a dull lecturer at college.”

“Well, what are you doing here beside dreaming?”

“Waiting to get some papers from Van.”

“Why don’t you get them then, and go home to sleep?”

“Van’s off his trolley to-day. Got to wait.”

“Um.—‘Furioso’ on the Bench?”

“No.—Hot weather, I guess.”

“Ah. Who’s on deck then?”

“I don’t know, and Van couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell.”

“Well, I was about to ask you to take charge of a little matter for me, but I’m afraid I oughtn’t to keep you out of bed.”

“What’s it about?”

“Nothing but opposing an application for a bill of particulars. I don’t care very much whether I win or lose. Merely contest it as a matter of form. You can submit it without argument, if you’d rather, but I’ve another case in Part IV., and can’t wait here. Will you do it, you dormouse?”

“Yes—provided you won’t damn me if you lose.”

“Don’t care a cuss.”

“All right.”

“Thank you. Good-bye.”

Martin glanced lazily at the papers Allison tossed into his lap. Phelps vs. Orson? What number was it on the calendar? He pulled the Law Journal out of his pocket and consulted the list of “motions.” Twenty-second case? Good lord—Allison had buncoed him! If he argued that motion he’d have to stay in the stuffy Court Room all morning. But he wouldn’t argue it—he’d give the papers to Van, and let him hand them up to the Court when the case was called. Martin stuffed the documents into his pocket, and lolling back in his chair, tried to regain those scenes from which Allison had rudely torn him. To further this, he rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes. But try as he might, he could not again rid himself of his surroundings, for there was more movement all over the room as the waiting crowd grew restless, and directly back of him two men whispered with maddening persistency. For a time Martin tried to fuse their sibilants into the general buzz, but failing in this, began to listen to their conversation. In a few seconds he ceased to hear any of the other sounds going on about him.

—“Then Van doesn’t know,” one of the men asserted. “I tell you Colton’s ill and he’s been assigned to take his place. He’s never sat here before? Well, of course not. That’s just the point. You’ve got a head like a tack! Now listen to what I say, and, for God’s sake, don’t make a mess of it. The order’s in a green cover like this——

The speaker paused and Martin almost turned, but checked himself in time.

“No, there ain’t many this colour.—You can’t miss it if you keep awake. It’ll be handed to Van sometime before recess. When he gives it to His Nibs you watch it like a cat, and the minute he signs it make for the telephone and notify ’em at the office. They’ll keep the wire open. Now d’ye think you’ve got sense enough to work this thing straight?”

The other man made no response, but probably nodded, for his companion continued:

“All right then. I’m o double f. But remember if you botch it, you’ll be wanting a new job.”

The speaker rose and passed before Martin, who languidly glanced at him and then strolled into the Rotunda. Mullin the process-server stood, as usual, near the door. Martin touched his arm.

“Mullin,” he began, “didn’t you want to bet me a few days ago that you knew every man who entered this Court House?”

“Sure. Wanter take me up?”

“Yes,” answered Martin, hurrying him toward the right hand stairway. “Bet you a good cigar you won’t know the man in grey clothes we’ll see coming down from the other side.”

They had just reached the first landing when the person in question passed through the open hall below.

Mullin laughed.

“I’ll take a ‘Carolina Perfecto,’” he said and began to move up the steps again.

“Do you know him?” questioned Martin, slowly following.

“Sure. Everybody knows him. Give us something harder.”

“Well, who is he?”

“Nevis—of course.”

“Who’s he?”

“Boss reporter of The Guardian.”

“O, I thought he was a lawyer.”

Martin spoke in a tone of disappointment.

“Nope. Too smart for that!” laughed the process-server.

“Well, I owe you a cigar, I suppose. We can’t get a Carolina Perfecto here, but I’ll see you when Court adjourns, or if not then, some other day.”

“All right, Mr. Martin, your credit’s good, I guess.”

Nevis of The Guardian? What did that dirty sheet have to do with Court orders in green covers or any other covers? What sort of boys worked for such papers nowadays? Martin had himself served an apprenticeship in the newspaper world and still felt a lively interest in the ways of Park Row. He would have a look at the cub reporter left on guard. With this purpose in view he returned to the Court Room, but the moment he entered the door the object of his quest was completely forgotten. The judge had already ascended the Bench, and His Honour was Charles Blagden, Esq.

Martin slipped into a rear seat and watched the youthful face of the man behind the desk.

There was no love lost between Martin and the Hon. Charles Blagden. They had met as lawyers and Blagden had been the victor; they had met as men to differ on every matter of opinion and taste; they had met as rivals and Martin had written a letter of congratulation which had cost him the bitterest thoughts of his life. But Fortune continued to shower gifts upon her favourite and not very long after his marriage, an appointment to a vacancy on the Supreme Court Bench made Blagden the youngest Judge in the City.

Charles Blagden was a careful lawyer and he made a capable Judge—so capable, indeed, that his political party had just nominated him as its Judicial candidate for the coming November elections.

But not satisfied with the start which Fortune had thus given, the hero-worshippers set out to make Fame meet him half way.

What silly discoveries are made in the light of one small success; what senseless tributes are inspired by achievement—no matter what the agency. Blagden’s capability as a lawyer became “distinguished ability” on the tongues of hundreds of his fellow-citizens who never knew him. There were dozens of prophets who had always “marked him out,” and scores of men ready with stories and anecdotes of his prowess and skill.

Martin had watched Blagden’s career with a jealousy but little removed from positive hatred, and every word of this indiscriminate praise fretted him almost past endurance. He felt himself as able a man as his rival, he knew many lawyers more worthy of distinction and, smarting under the injustice of these sudden acclamations, he began to grow contemptuous of public esteem.

It was not long, however, before he awoke to the danger of brooding over such thoughts. The world was big enough for them both, and the mighty metropolis was a world so wide that the blotting out of any face was only the matter of a step in the crowd. This man should not spoil or embitter his life.

From the moment of that resolution Blagden disappeared from his horizon, and Martin began to view life again from his normal standpoint.

It was only when business threatened to bring him into Blagden’s Court that he experienced the old feeling of bitterness. But then it returned with a rush. One such lesson had been sufficient to warn him however, and Martin thereafter appeared before Judge Blagden by proxy only.

It was just as well, he thought, as he felt the hot blood surging through his veins, that Allison didn’t insist upon his arguing Phelps vs. Orson. It would have been impossible to address that Self-Satisfied Piece of Humanity with respect. Thank goodness he could escape by handing the papers to the Clerk!

He rose and passed along the rear of the Court Room. In the far corner sat a newspaper artist sketching the Judge and the scene about his desk. Martin glanced sharply at the man, but he was absorbed in his work and obviously not on the outlook for green-covered law papers. Nearer the front, however, sat a young fellow studying every movement behind the rail, and sometimes even rising nervously from his seat in his efforts to keep a clear view. This was undoubtedly the youth whose place depended on his vigilant watch of the Bench. What the devil was it all about? In an instant his old newspaper instinct had carried everything before it and Martin passed down the middle aisle, seating himself immediately behind the young reporter.

“Phelps vs. Orson.”

Martin started at the sound of the Judge’s voice, every fibre in his body tingling with instant defiance.

The defendant’s attorney answered “Ready,” but Martin made no response. He knew he did not intend to argue the case and should promptly state the fact.

“Phelps vs. Orson?” repeated the Justice inquiringly.

“Ready!” answered Martin, yielding to the call of sheer perversity.

It was childish, petty, absurd—and he knew it. But at that moment to defy custom, to oppose everything and everybody, to hamper and obstruct the Court in every possible manner, no matter how futile, seemed absolutely essential to the assertion of his independence and the maintenance of his self-respect.

Some one vacated a seat immediately in front of the nervous reporter who hastily gathered his papers together and moved into the empty chair. Martin at once rose and took the journalist’s place. As he did so he felt something crackle beneath him, and rising picked up a crumpled piece of paper from the seat. It was a sheet torn from a reporter’s pad, and as he lazily unfolded it Martin saw it was covered with writing in a weak, boyish hand. To the initiated the scribbles were unmistakable studies in newspaper captions or headings—the “makeup” of which Martin recalled as a fad of his cub-reporter days.

The first attempt was as follows:

“A Candidate Coralled.”

Then came several other “settings:”

“A Supreme Court Scandal.” “A Judicial Judas.” “A Daniel Come to Grief.”

This last effort apparently satisfied the embryo city editor, for his sub-headings were written below:

“AN EXTRAORDINARY COURT ORDER UNEARTHED BY The Guardian.”

“It Bears the Initials of the Hon. Charles Blagden, Candidate for Judicial Office.”

“A Searching Investigation to be Instituted. Lawyers Indignant. Litigants Astonished.”

Martin read the words with savage satisfaction.

So, the Hon. Justice was playing tricks, was he—and not very good tricks either? He was on the point of being exposed—was he? Well, it was about time something happened to those noiseless wheels of the little tin god! People were beginning to believe there was something miraculous in his transit. It had long been heretical to suggest either pull or push. But both agencies have to be paid for in one way or another, and at some time.—To pay whom or what was this green-covered order required?—What a shock it would be for the worshippers to see their metal divinity wobbling on his stand and to hear the shrieking of his squeaky rollers! Fortunately for him some of his triumphs were secure, but it would be interesting for at least one person to discover—— No, she would never discover anything. Charlie would tell her it was all right—and that would make it so.—“Charlie,” indeed!—Ugh!

A sharp movement in front of him aroused Martin from his bitter musing. The young reporter was leaning forward in his chair, staring at a little clean-shaven Hebrew who had entered the room and was leaning on the rail, a green-covered legal paper in his hand.

Van took the document from the messenger, shook it open and placed it at the bottom of the pile of orders on the Judge’s desk. The Court had already begun to hear arguments, and as the Counsel talked the Judge occasionally took up one of these orders and signed it. Clerks kept entering the room from time to time, handing papers and orders to Van, who added them to the rapidly-increasing pile on the Judge’s desk.

Meanwhile Martin stared at the green edge of the order in which The Guardian took such a lively interest. How did that paper come to know its contents? The Guardian was politically opposed to the Judge’s party—was, indeed, the semi-official organ of the enemy. It could not be in the confidence of the Judge’s friends. No avenue of exposure would be more carefully watched than that which led to the columns of The Guardian. There must be a traitor in the camp. Or perhaps some honest man, despising underhand methods, had given the clue to the most effective police. But if an honest man desired to protect his party, would he not frustrate the scheme rather than expose it after it was accomplished? Yes, some traitor must be selling information to the opposition. The Guardian certainly would not hesitate to buy dirty secrets. It was savagely partisan—unscrupulous and daring. It fairly slobbered with the froth of sensation—lived on scandal, and obtained its pabulum by any and every means. Thus far there had been little to feed upon in the career of the Hon. Charles Blagden. But it would not shrink from providing itself with carrion if a touch of one of its underground wires would suffice.—Might not The Guardian know the history of the green-covered order at first hand?

Martin dismissed the thought again and again, but it gathered strength and substance and forced itself upon him. He recalled the words of the Boss Reporter about Blagden’s never having sat at Chambers before. He had explained that that was “just the point.” And the point was—? Obviously that the work at Chambers was hurried, and that a novice would be apt to sign papers without due deliberation.

What could be easier for a sheet like The Guardian than to trump up a legal proceeding of some sort, and to concoct, with the aid of cunning lawyers, an order unobjectionable on its face, but which would compromise the reputation of any Judge who signed it? If the plot miscarried, the conspirators could readily cover their tracks and make good their escape.—It was a dangerous game but not a new one.

And if all this were so, what had he, Martin, to do with it?

Of course if Blagden was playing tricks he deserved to get caught and no one but the hero-worshippers could be expected to cry.—But if he was being tricked?—That was just the question to be decided. He, Martin, was merely a spectator, interested in the event, it is true, but still only an onlooker.—Was that true? Had not that rôle been forfeited when he acquired special information? Was his attitude a perfectly passive one? If any other man than Blagden was on the Bench would he not instantly communicate what he had heard? Would he feel no disappointment whatsoever if Blagden refused to sign the order? Frankly—was he not waiting to see his enemy walk into what he believed was a trap?

Martin flushed at the silent self-accusation and instantly pronounced it absurd. What could he do? Any man who goes on the Bench has to assume grave responsibilities and take the risk with the honours. Blagden’s attitude had always been a silent boast of needing no help from anyone. Would not interference give him an opportunity for retorting that “he had the office and Martin the officiousness.” How he would roll that under his tongue!—No, Blagden could take care of himself. He would never thank anyone for playing nurse for him.

The papers on the Judge’s desk were piling higher and higher, and he began to sign or reject them more rapidly as the time wore on. Martin glanced at The Guardian’s order. It was still buried under a dozen others.

Why did he think of it as “The Guardian’s order”? He had no proof of the matter. But were not his suspicions strong enough to excuse a warning? What did he fear? A snub? Well, that was better than “the laughter of the soul against itself when conscience has condemned it, which the soul never hears once in its fulness without hearing it forever after.”

How often he had repeated those lines to himself! What a hopeless, haunting sound they had in them! He hated this man—but was he willing to wear the The Guardian’s mask and hear forever after the hideous laughter of the soul?

Martin glanced again at the Judge’s desk, and then rapidly writing a few words on a piece of paper, folded and addressed it to the Hon. Charles Blagden, and carried it to the Clerk’s desk.

Van, restored to his usual good humour, met him with a smile.

“Why didn’t you come earlier for your papers, Mr. Martin?” he whispered. “I’ve had them here for you ever since Court opened.”

“Much obliged, Van. Just hand this note up to Judge Blagden—will you?”

“I can’t do it, Mr. Martin. His Private Secretary says it’s one of his fads. He won’t even let us hand him telegrams when he’s on the Bench.”

“But this is more important than a telegram, Van,” replied Martin in a low tone. “Hand it up to him and I’ll assume all the responsibility.”

“I’d like to oblige you, Mr. Martin, but——”

“You will not be obliging me, Van, but him.”

The veteran clerk gazed at the earnest face of the lawyer for a moment, and then reached out his hand for the letter.

“I’ll try it, Mr. Martin,” he whispered.

It was some moments before the Justice noticed Van standing near his chair, and raised his eyes inquiringly. The clerk held out the folded piece of paper, but Blagden frowned and impatiently waved the official away. For a moment Van lingered, but when the Magistrate swung his chair so as to turn his back on the interruption, he rejoined Martin and handed him the rejected note, with a smile and a shrug.

Martin took it and sat down again with a distinct feeling of relief. He had done all he could. If there was anything wrong with the order he had tried his best to call it to the Judge’s attention, and that pompous fool had rejected the opportunity. He might as well hand up the Phelps vs. Orson papers and go back to the office.

Martin pulled the small bundle out of his pocket and studied the indorsement. Phelps against Orson? Why, that must be the case Dick Phelps had talked about for half an hour at the Club the other night. Of course it was—Allison was his attorney. Well, that was rather odd. Martin wrote “submitted” on the first paper in the bundle, and then glanced at the Bench. The green order was fourth from the top.

Why the devil did his heart keep thumping with excitement! He had done more than ninety-nine men out of a hundred would do. Anything more would be asinine interference for which he would have time to repent at leisure. He’d get right out of that stifling Court Room—

“Phelps against Orson” called the Judge.

For a heart-beat Martin hesitated. Then he rose to his feet and walking directly to the Counsel’s table slipped the rubber band from his bundle of papers and sat down.

As his opponent began to speak, Martin lazily read through his papers, making an occasional note on a loose sheet of legal cap. When he looked up again the green order was second from the top. Then he shoved his chair back and watched the Judge who, as the Counsel ceased speaking, took up another paper, leaving the green-covered order at the top of the pile.

Martin glanced at the clock and noted that recess would begin in twenty-five minutes. Then he sat quietly and waited till the Judge, surprised at the unusual pause, looked at him, and nodded.

“Proceed, Mr. Martin.”

Martin gazed fixedly at the Bench and rose with great deliberation and dignity.

“If it please the Court,” he began solemnly, “this is, on its face, a simple motion for a bill of particulars—part of that sparring for position which precedes every legal encounter. But at the outset I ask the closest possible attention from the Court, for before I have finished I expect to show that this apparently simple motion cloaks a matter of vital importance, not only to these litigants but to the public at large.”

Judge Blagden leaned back in his chair and listened to the lawyer with grave attention. The attorney for the defendant stared at the speaker in blank astonishment.

It was, Martin continued impressively, a case in which a knowledge of all the facts was of supreme importance. To understand certain actions one must follow the wires that control them, underground or overhead, until the hand which clutches them be discovered. For this reason he would take the liberty of detailing to the Court the history of the litigation.

Martin then launched into a minute and deliberate recital of the facts. He dwelt upon the private history of the plaintiff, traced his business career from its beginning up to the day of the transaction with the defendants, described the fruitless efforts of the parties to settle their differences out of Court, and the failure of the attorneys to come to any agreement.

At this point the defendant’s attorney interrupted, claiming that none of these facts, however interesting they might be, was to be found in the papers, and that Counsel must be confined to what was therein stated.

Martin admitted that, ordinarily, this would be proper, but in this case he asked for “great latitude for grave reasons.” Then, with marked emphasis, he recapitulated all the various points he had detailed and asked the Court to note their important bearing upon what he was about to disclose.

The opposing Counsel shifted uneasily in his chair and shook his head in utter bewilderment, and the Justice leaned forward on his desk.

Then Martin picked up the bill of complaint and began to read it with great deliberation. That seemed to break the spell.

“Mr. Martin, I must ask you to come to your point, please,” interrupted the Justice.

“I am coming to it now, Sir.”

He again took up the complaint and once more began to read it aloud.

Judge Blagden revolved his chair restlessly from side to side and again interrupted—this time impatiently.

“You have already occupied almost twenty minutes, Mr. Martin. This is not, you know, the Court of Appeals.”

“Where your Honour’s decision can be reviewed if incorrect? I am aware of that, Sir.”

The Magistrate looked sharply at the speaker, who regarded him with a calm, cold glance.

“The Court cannot allow you to consume much more time, Sir. The decision of this motion is largely a matter of discretion——”

“Which your Honour will remember is the better part of valour.”

Judge Blagden frowned angrily at the speaker and picked up the green-covered order.

The Court Room was hushed to almost breathless stillness.

“Go on with your argument, Mr. Martin, but be brief.” The words came from behind the paper in the Judge’s hand.

Martin instantly sat down.

The Judge stopped reading and peered over the desk.

“Well,” he queried, “have you finished?”

“No, Sir, I have not,” answered Martin positively.

“Then proceed, Sir.”

“When the Court honours me with the courtesy of its attention I will proceed—but not until then.”

The answer was a challenge, sharp and decisive.

“I am listening, Sir,” retorted Blagden, in a tone of marked annoyance, “and I have been listening much longer than should be necessary. Get to your point at once.”

“If the Court is willing to undertake a divided duty,” Martin paused until the Judge’s eyes met his—“I am unwilling to receive a divided attention.”

“The Court has no inclination to hear further suggestions from Counsel on this point.”

The Judge took up his pen, dipped it in the ink, and turned to the last page of the green-covered order.

Behind him Martin could hear the cub-reporter tiptoeing to the door.

“Then if the Court will not give me a hearing I demand that it read my brief!”

Martin thundered out the words so fiercely that the audience started perceptibly and the Judge looked up in angry astonishment.

“Sit down, Mr. Martin,” he ordered sternly.

“I hand you my brief, Sir,” answered Martin, holding out a folded sheet of legal cap, “and request its immediate consideration.”

“You may hand it to the clerk, Sir; it will be considered at the proper time.”

“I request the Court to read it now.”

“The Court will not entertain it at present.”

“I demand it as a right!”

“Mr. Martin, you forget yourself.”

“You are right, but still I demand that this brief be now read.”

Martin leaned over the rail and placed the document upon the Judge’s desk.

In the pause that followed, the Magistrate’s eyes followed these lines indorsed on the cover of the paper thrust before him:

“Look out for the green-covered order in your hand. Suspect something fraudulent. Parties now in Court watching you. Am talking against time.”

Then the stillness of the room was broken by the Justice speaking in a constrained voice:

“The Court will now adjourn for recess. In the meantime, Mr. Martin, I will consider your brief.”

It was some days after the crowd had ceased discussing the way Blagden “got called down by Martin” that the latter wrote a short reply to the former’s long epistle.

“Mr. Martin respectfully acknowledges Judge Blagden’s letter of the 10th inst., and is gratified to learn that the warning was not wholly uncalled for. The Justice, however, may rest assured that he is under no obligation to Mr. Martin, whose sole concern in the matter was his honour—but not His Honour Charles Blagden.”