IN HIS OWN BEHALF.

“Well, Clancy, your case is on the Day Calendar, and is likely to be reached this week.”

“’Tis thankful Oi am, Sorr.”

Michael Clancy’s two hundredweight of flesh and bones rested in my most reliable office chair, and Michael Clancy’s huge hands were clasped over his capacious stomach, while his outstretched legs were crossed in a settled attitude.

Clancy had been entrusted to me by a sympathetic House Physician of an up-town hospital. The story made a “negligence case.”

I had taken up the matter merely out of good nature, but the old man was a character, and I soon became interested in his personality.

For two years he had been a regular visitor at my office, ostensibly to make inquiries as to the progress of his law suit, but really, I think, for social recreation. A litigation does not advance very rapidly in a New York Court for the first two years, and he knew this at the outset, but his calls were made with a regularity which suggested routine. If he chanced to come in while I was busy he never interrupted, but sat in the outer offices chatting with the clerks until such time as he judged his social duty had been discharged.

Clancy’s confidence in me was certainly gratifying, but it took the form of completely transferring to my shoulders all responsibility for the case. His attitude toward it was that of a friend interested but not especially involved in the outcome. Whenever he referred to it, which was not often, he spoke of it as “yur kase,” as though he had washed his hands of it but wished me well. There was no question about his gratitude, but his idea of expressing this was to put himself wholly in my care and give as little trouble as possible.

I once thought that the possession of another’s confidence was a proper matter for self-congratulation, but I have never felt quite the same about this since I finished Clancy’s case.

Michael’s injuries had completely incapacitated him for work and his massive frame had taken on flesh until the ponderous body made his head appear ridiculously small. His clean-shaven face was round, his eyes were almost tiny, and his mouth was like that of a child.

Although loquacious to a degree, his delivery was slow, and whenever he talked to me his every word was accompanied by an apologetic smile, so that even when he spoke of his troubles his cheeks wore a “permanent puff.”

“Have you ever been in a court, Michael?” I asked as Clancy sat by my desk smiling his benedictions upon my news of an early trial.

“Oi hov not, Sorr—leastways not since Dolan’s Nannie wuz afther bein’ kilt be Beagan’s pup.”

I did not investigate Clancy’s experience in that cause célèbre, although I saw reminiscence in his eye.

“I think we better go over your testimony, Clancy,” I said. “It’s two years since the accident occurred and you may have forgotten details—I’m sure I have. But you remember making this affidavit at the time—do you not?”

Clancy looked at the paper in my hand and then cast a knowing glance in my direction.

“Am Oi ter say—‘Yiz’—Sorr?”

“Why you’re to tell the truth, of course,” I answered rather sharply. “But you must remember swearing to this.”

“Must Oi now, Sorr? Thot’s all right thin. But whisper, Oi only remimber a shlip av a gurl comin’ in an’ makin’ little burd thracks in a bit av a book an’ you spakin’ to her thot pleasant-loike—’twas fascinayted Oi wuz.”

I began to foresee trouble with this willing witness and to view Clancy in a new light. However I tried explanation.

“That was the stenographer taking down this affidavit,” I answered.

“Wuz it now, Sorr? Oi’ll not forgit ut.”

I felt somewhat embarrassed by the gleam of cunning in Clancy’s little eyes, but I pretended not to notice it and continued:

“I’ll read the statement to you and that will refresh your memory. Then we can go over the questions you are liable to be asked.”

“’Tis as you loike, Sorr.”

Clancy settled himself, with resignation rather than interest expressed in his good-natured face, but I knew he was all attention.

“City and County of New York ss:” I began.

“Shure, Counsellor, Oi niver said thot. Faith, Oi want ter hilp yiz with yur kase, but sorra a wurd loike thim iver passed me lips.”

“O, never mind, Clancy!” I exclaimed, silently cursing my indiscretion. “That’s only a legal phrase with which every affidavit begins.”

“All right, Sorr. ’Tis for you ter know.”

Again Clancy assumed his attitude of resignation and I read on:

“Michael Clancy being duly sworn deposes and says that he resides at No. — West Ninety-third Street, in the City of New York, and that on the 15th day of May, 1896, he was in the employ of the Cavendish Tool Company.”

“Thrue for you, Sorr—an’ bad cess ter thim,” commented Clancy.

“That previous to May 15, 1896, he had been in the employ of said Company for nine years——”

“’Twas not so long, Sorr, for whin me sisther-in-law Theresa’s sicond child, she thot aftherwards married Bicie Sullivan’s lad, wuz sick at th’ toime av me wife’s brother’s wake, Oi stayed from wurrk two days fur ter luk ter th’ child an’ so——”

“O, well—that’s near enough—say nine years,” I interrupted.

“Oi’ll say whativer you want, Sorr—but, be th’ same token, ’tis thruth Oi do be tellin’ you now—betwane oursilves loike.”

I looked sternly at Clancy’s rotund countenance. This case was looming up pregnant with possibilities in the presence of a witness with ready-made testimony and confidential truths. Clancy as a character was all right, but, as a client? I began to be alarmed. This had to be stopped.

“Now, understand once and for all, Clancy,” I exclaimed almost threateningly, “I don’t want you to tell anything at any time except the truth.”

Clancy relapsed again.

“’Tis for you ter know, Sorr,” was all he said.

I looked at the man with desperation in my eyes.

“Now, Michael, listen to me. If there’s anything really wrong in the affidavit, stop me; but, if it’s unimportant, don’t let’s waste time on it. Now, where were we? Here it is:—‘had been in the employ of said Company for nine years——’”

“Av coorse, thot’s moindin’ what Oi do be afther tellin’ you, Sorr.”

“Good lord, man! For nearly nine years then. Will that satisfy you? We’ll never finish if you keep this up!”

“’Tis dumb Oi am, Sorr.”

Clancy’s big hands waved off further reproaches in a little gesture half soothing, half disclaiming.

Then all intelligence faded from his face, and he sat with closed eyes, punctuating my sentences with nodding head, as I continued from the text of the affidavit.

“During those nine years” (Clancy winced, but kept silent), “he was engaged as a porter in the Company’s main office, in Fulton Street. On the morning of May 15, 1896, while engaged in sorting merchandise on the fourth floor of said building, a shelf on the north side of the room gave way, and a keg of nails fell upon his spine, inflicting serious injuries.

“Deponent did not erect said shelf, nor was the same erected under his direction, nor was the merchandise upon it placed there by deponent or deponent’s orders.

“Deponent further avers that he never knew the said shelf was unsafe, although the Superintendent had been told that one of its brackets needed repairing.”

I continued reading the rest of the long statement without interruption from Clancy. Even when I finished he made no comment, and I thought him depressed in spite of his smile, so I spoke up cheerfully.

“That’s the story, Michael. It all comes back clearly enough now, doesn’t it? There’s nothing like having these affidavits made out at the time, so one can recall all the facts. Now there’s very little more work to be done. You remember I had diagrams made of the room where you were working, so we have those, and the Doctor’s sent me word that he’s ready at any time. There were no other witnesses, you say? Well, then, let me hear you tell the story in your own way, without any prompting from me. Begin by describing the place. Now, go on.”

Clancy smiled contentedly, leaned forward in his chair and slowly rubbed his knees with the palms of his hands.

“Beyant th’ dure,” he began, “there do be a laarge room, with foive windows in ut, an’ a stairkase ter th’ left hand soide goin’ upstairs. In th’ cintre av this room they do hov two rows av stoof an’ th’ same is on shilves foreninst an’ behoind thim——”

The picture was not entirely clear, but I spoke up hopefully:

“Yes; and in this room you worked?”

“Oi niver did, Sorr.”

“Then describe the room where you did work,” I answered, wearily. “No other room is of any importance.”

“Will you leave me tell ut in my own way, Sorr?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Sorr, ’twas this way ut wuz. There do be a gang av min on th’ fourth flure handlin’ stoof thot’s afther comin’ outer th’ elevaytor. Th’ elevaytor do be nixt th’ stairkase, an’ th’ min stand in loine an’ roll th’ barruls wan to anither clane acrost th’ flure. Th’ furst feller do be called ‘the guide,’ an’——”

“And you worked with these men?” I interposed.

“Shure Oi niver had onythin’ at all to do with thim. But minny a toime Oi’ve seen thim——”

“Wait,” I said, “this won’t do. I’ll start at the beginning, and ask you questions just as though you were in Court, and you answer them.”

Clancy looked a bit troubled, but he shifted himself in his chair and said, “Yiz, Sorr,” brightly enough.

“Mr. Clancy,” I began in my best jury manner, “where do you reside?”

A light gleamed in the witness’s eyes.

“City an’ County av New York—SS!” he burst out proudly.

I dropped the paper on my desk and groaned aloud. But when I saw the look of crushing disappointment on Clancy’s face I forced a smile and said,

“Try to forget that, Michael. It has nothing whatever to do with your testimony. Now let’s begin again—Where do you reside?”

“Shure you know, Sorr.”

“Yes, I know, Clancy, but the jury doesn’t and we’re supposed to be in Court. Answer just as you would before the jury. Now—who employed you in May, 1896?”

“A boonch av scuts—no less!”

I sighed hopelessly. It was useless to continue this game.

“Perhaps we’ve had about enough for to-day, Michael,” I said. “Go to Court to-morrow and listen to some witnesses testify. You’ll soon get the idea. Then come down to the office in the afternoon and I’ll have some questions written out so that you’ll know about what you’re to be asked. There’s nothing like thorough preparation. By the way, do you want to add anything to the affidavit? The facts are all right as far as they go, I suppose?”

Clancy hesitated, wiped his mouth once or twice—smiled out of the window and ended by a general shift of his bulk. But he did not speak.

“What is it?” I asked encouragingly.

A gesture of disclaimer, almost coy this time, prefaced his reply.

“Shure Oi don’t loike ter throuble you, Sorr, an’ ’tis as loike as not to be wan av thim deetales you was spakin’ av——”

“Never mind, what is it?”

“Well, Sorr, Oi don’t seem ter call ter moinde th’ lad thot’s been afther sayin’ an’ doin’ some av thim things.”

The excitement had evidently been too much for Michael’s head, but to soothe him I asked,

“What lad, Clancy?”

“Daypont, Sorr.”

“Daypont?” I repeated.

Then I picked up the affidavit, and light dawned upon me.

“You don’t mean deponent, do you?”

“’Tis the same, Sorr—Shure he niver wurrked fer thim in all me toime.”

A penholder broke, but I slowly minced a blotter before I trusted myself to explain.

“Deponent means you, Clancy.”

“Is ut me?”

“Certainly. For instance——” here I picked up the affidavit.—“This reads ‘Deponent did not erect said shelf’, and that means, you did not erect it,——”

“But Begorra, that’s just what Oi did, Sorr——”

“What!” I shrieked.

“Oi builded——”

“You built the shelf that fell?”

My voice was desperately calm but the pencil in my hands was playing a tattoo on the desk.

“Shure, Oi did, Sorr.”

“Then why in the name of common sense, man, didn’t you say so before?” I burst out.

“Shure Oi didn’t loike ter throuble yiz, an’ you readin’ it out so beautiful-loike. An’ faith, Oi thought ’twas some scut av a Daypont you wuz spakin’ av as not doin’——”

Clancy looked at me and my face must have been awesome, for he stopped with mouth agape.

“Nor was the merchandise upon said shelf placed there by deponent?” I read inquiringly.

“’Twas Oi that put ut there av a Friday marnin,’ Sorr, an’——”

“Deponent further avers,” I continued with fearful calm, “that he never knew the said shelf was unsafe?”

“Shure ’twas the day befure Oi was spakin’ to th’ Super, an’ ses Oi to him—O’Toole, ses Oi, the shilf foreninst the dure is broke, ses Oi, but Oi’ve stooffed a bit of sthick in fur a nail, ses Oi, an’ ’twill holt good an’ ut don’t come down, Oi ses. Moike, ses he——”

“For Heaven’s sake man, stop! You must have known all this two years ago—why didn’t you speak then?”

“’Twas afraid av throublin’ yiz with deetales Oi wuz. Do ut make any difference, Sorr?”

“Difference!” I burst out. “Your case is absurd—utterly impossible and absurd! Why, man—you haven’t got a leg to stand on!”

Clancy looked at his feet for a moment.

“’Tis me spoine——” he began.

Then he stopped and smiled.

“’Tis for you to know, Sorr,” he added, sadly.

I didn’t laugh, for I saw tears in Clancy’s childlike eyes.

But I discontinued that action, and my affidavits now read with unprofessional clarity.