THE FINDING OF FACT.

“But their wild exultation was suddenly checked, As the Jailer informed them with tears, Such a verdict would not have the slightest effect, As the pig had been dead for some years.”

LEWIS CARROLL.

“Anything on this morning, Counsellor?”

The title was still music to Holden’s ears, so he smiled encouragingly at the fat reporter. In an instant a bethumbed court calendar was shoved under his nose and the reportorial pencil questioned,

“Grafton against the Milling Companies? Are you in that? Say, what’s doing there to-day? Is it any good?”

The reportorial arm was slipped confidentially through his, and Holden thus accompanied threaded his way through the crowded rotunda of the County Court House.

“Hello—must be something up in Holden’s office. Look at that leech Plimpton glued to him!”

“Yes—Grafton against The Milling Companies.”

“Good Lord! Is that on? I might as well go back to the office then. We’ll never be reached to-day.”

“That’s right. We’re not ready, so thank goodness they’re ahead of us. It’s a dandy case,—wish we had it.”

“Think I’ll stay and hear the arguments.—Old man Harter’s in fine form, they say.”

So the managing clerks talked as they leaned against the walls of the rotunda or sat upon the railing of the “Well.”

It is an interesting place that rotunda—a trifle impossible, perhaps, from an academic point of view,—but still an interesting place.

It is the big noisy ante-chamber to the stuffy court rooms of a big noisy city. It has an atmosphere of tobacco, shirt sleeves and hurry—an atmosphere of the people—its architecture is big and plain—an architecture for the people, and its dirt and smears bespeak a daily use and occupation by the people.

To the casual visitor the same persons seem to live in it all the year round. To the habitué the masses are kaleidoscopic—never and yet ever the same. Messengers,—process-servers, office boys—all the fledglings of the law gather there in groups and blow cigarette smoke into each other’s faces. Court officials loll about the railing patronising the managing clerks, who must cultivate them or yield all claims to management. Big-girthed men hold one another by watch chains and lapels and tell loud-mouthed stories of their triumphant practice. Bloated gentlemen and shifty seek out corners to breathe moist secrets into each other’s ears. But heedless of all these a hurrying crowd is ever streaming this way and that—here a haggard face and there a laughing one—now a brutal type and now a mask of breeding—so they go—shuffle, shuffle, click-a-clack, all day long, outside the halls of Justice.

Holden pushed open the swinging doors labelled

SPECIAL TERM PART I.

and entered a small court room crowded to suffocation. Every seat was occupied and men were standing about everywhere—jammed in between the chairs—plastered against the wall—crushed against the rail. The counsels’ table and its two chairs were the only unoccupied bits of furniture in the room.

The Court criers glanced despairingly at the throng and shouted mechanically, “Gentlemen will please take seats!” and then, more hopefully, “Gentlemen will please stop talking!”

But the babel of conversation was finally hushed by an attendant who announced the entrance of the Judge by pounding with an ample fist upon the panels of a door. Not a very dignified heralding of the presence of the Court, but understood by the late comers whose view is limited to the judicial canopy—that pall-like canopy of red rep which sets one panting to gaze with relief at the steam-screened windows. They at least are wet.

“Grafton vs. The Milling Companies!”

Holden fought his way like a foot-ball player through the “rush line” of lawyers, and as he pitched into the cleared space before the counsels’ table his impulse was to dodge the one man before him and race down “the side-line.” But he checked himself in time. Then two other young men plunged into the open and stood somewhat breathlessly before the Bench.

“If it please the Court,” began Holden, “this is a motion in a case of great importance and——”

“All cases are equally important in this Court, Sir!”

“I recognise that, your Honour, but I was about to say——”

“Well, well, never mind! Are you ready?”

“Yes, Sir, but I was about to tell your Honour——”

“That’ll do, Sir!”

“That Mr. Harter, who is to argue this motion, thinks it will take till recess.”

“Ah, Mr. Harter? Well, his opinions are interesting, of course, but not quite conclusive on this Court. Not necessarily conclusive. Eh?”

A titter from the crowd acknowledged this retort. Is there anything so irresistibly infectious as the wit of the Bench?

The other young men then came to the rescue of their fellow clerk. This is such an old, old play that every one knows his cue.

“Col. Partridge thinks he will need half an hour, your Honour.”

“Col. Partridge? Ah,—well,—what does the other side say?”

“Mr. Coates thinks he will take twenty minutes more.”

“Um—Mr. Coates? Tell—er—tell Mr. Harter I’ll take it up as soon as the cases ahead of it are disposed of. No cases after Grafton vs. The Milling Companies will be heard before two o’clock. Morton vs. Sheldon, are you ready?”

“The defendant’s Counsel has just stepped into the hall. If your Honour will hold it a moment——”

“This Court waits for no one, Sir. Its time belongs to the People. Motion dismissed. Vone vs. Taunton. What’s that about?”

“It’s a motion to change the place of trial, if the Court please.”

“Well, hand in your papers.”

“But I’d like to be heard, your Honour. This means much to my client.”

“Now, Mister,—er—Mister—er—Counsellor, what is the use of arguing that? I know all about it—I have hundreds of such cases—and seldom grant them. Hand up your papers.”

“Will not the Court allow me——”

“No, Sir; no, Sir! That’ll do! Hand up your papers.—Grafton vs. The Milling Companies! Ah, Mr. Harter; good-morning, Sir. Officer, get Mr. Harter a chair. Good-morning, Colonel Partridge, how are you to-day, Sir? We are all ready now, I think, Mr. Coates? Yes? Well, no other cases will be heard this morning.”

And the Judge leans back in his comfortable swing-chair, and beams in courteous attention upon the distinguished counsel.

“If the Court please,” begins Mr. Coates, “this is a case of great importance——”

Yes, his Honour knows its importance. He has gathered this from the retainer of Messrs. Harter and Partridge and Coates, and the reporters know its importance as they scribble on their pads, and the newspaper artists know it as they sketch illustrations for the “story,” and the Court officials know it reflecting his Honour on the Bench. But the one who knows it best of all is the grey-haired plaintiff, Grafton, who sits behind Mr. Harter and listens with a puzzled air to the learned arguments.

To Grafton the case was indeed important. It involved all he had in the world. It had seemed a simple case to him when he first brought it to his attorney, but matters had not gone smoothly from the start. Delay and postponement were followed by more delay and further postponement.

“The defendants were putting up a stiff fight,” his attorney told him. What about? Well, they had “demurred,” or “counterclaimed,” or “made a motion,” or “appealed,”—had done some of these things, or all of them—goodness knows just what—it was not very clear.

Why couldn’t his case be tried? Well, they were “stayed by appeal,” or “enjoined pending a motion,” or were “stricken off the calendar.” Some of these things, or all of them, had happened. “But the fact was,” his attorney told him, “the defendant’s Counsel stood in too well with the Court—he really ought to retain Mr. Harter.”

So Mr. Harter was retained, and the case bristled with nice legal points and pretty questions of practice, to the utter amazement of Grafton, who blindly stumbled along in the ruck of the legal battle, hopelessly confused and growing daily more and more anxious, like the suitor in Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce.

But such a case as Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce could never happen in New York, because, as any lawyer can tell you, there is no Court of Chancery, or anything like——

Well, there is no Court of Chancery.

The argument of Mr. Coates was ably sustained, and Mr. Harter’s reply was so masterly that Col. Partridge said in his rejoinder that nothing but his knowledge of the law kept him from being persuaded.

The Court laughed, and the officials laughed, and the listening Bar laughed. Everyone laughed except Grafton, who had no sense of humour, anyway.

But at last it was over.

“Well, Mr. Grafton, I hope you are satisfied—I feel sure his Honour was with us.... Holden, hand up your brief.... It was very good, Sir.... Mr. Grafton, this is young Mr. Holden of our office who wrote the brief for you on the motion to-day—and wrote it well, too.”

Holden blushed like a school-girl as he shook Mr. Grafton’s hand. It was no small thing to be praised by Mr. Harter at any time, but about “Grafton vs. The Milling Companies,” it was positive distinction.

Mr. Harter was right about the Court being with him, for the plaintiff won that motion.

He was right again in the two appeals which followed the decision. He was right on several other like occasions and won no less than six different motions and five appeals by the end of the next three years.

But the case didn’t get to trial.

It was then that Grafton began to grow surly and instead of congratulating Mr. Harter on his triumphant practice, snapped out that such practice made perfect fools of honest men.

Which was decidedly ungrateful as well as impolitic.

However, he sensibly gave up trying to follow the maze of procedure, and hammered away with expostulation and question at the fact that the case wasn’t tried.

With less wisdom he took to talking about the litigation with his friends and neighbours—with lawyers at the Club—with officials in the Court—with clerks in the office—with anyone and everyone who would listen, until he bored them beyond politeness and began to get snubbed. But the case itself was less interesting than at first. Almost all the fine points of “practice” had been exhausted and only the dry fodder of facts remained.

Harter hadn’t appeared in Court with it for many a day and plainly intimated that he’d retire altogether if Grafton didn’t stop boring him. But in Holden the plaintiff always had an interested listener. Ever since the morning when Mr. Harter had praised his work Holden had studied the case in every phase and knew its every detail. So when, a few months after he set up in practice for himself, Grafton brought him all the papers and made him his sole attorney, Holden knew no words with which to express his thanks.

He had always despised the flagging interest of his seniors. Doubtless they had done their best—Mr. Harter and the attorney, but despite their fruitless efforts he felt his ability to push the matter to a successful issue. It was a great case, and there was his chance, and into it he threw himself with all the splendid enthusiasm of his youth and strength. He pressed his adversaries this way and that, worried them with unending work and harassed them with ceaseless attack until he saw his case actually set down for trial on “a day certain.” Then his excitement knew no bounds. He worked hour after hour with Grafton’s witnesses, prepared schedules and accounts, compiled digests of testimony and indices of all the papers, made himself an expert bookkeeper and a master-expert on every detail of Grafton’s business. He raised every question that legal ingenuity could conjure up, and every quibble that cunning could devise and met them in his trial-brief—the work of months of careful study. There was no suggestion of a defence which was not ferreted out and run down by question and answer—no technicality neglected, until at length even Grafton laughingly protested.

“My dear boy, let’s leave it alone now! There’s no one can beat you on either the facts or the law.”

But Holden wouldn’t leave it alone. They were already talking about the approaching trial in the rotunda, and this was his start in life. So night and day he studied and planned with the increasing confidence which comes of perfect preparation.

At last they were in the Court crowded with witnesses, counsel, litigants and reporters.

Would there be another adjournment? Not if he could help it, and Holden squared his jaw and looked determination at the veteran Mr. Coates.

“Grafton vs. The Milling Companies—How long will that take?”

“About two days—your Honour, I think.” Holden’s voice fairly faltered as he answered glancing at the witnesses clustered near him and the immense pile of books and papers.

But Mr. Coates did not dissent. He was ready.

At last! At last they were at trial.

“Then no other matters will be heard to-day. Grafton vs. The Milling Companies. Proceed with your case, Sir.”

But Mr. Coates had arisen and was addressing the Court.

“I think it only right to say to your Honour that I shall not interpose any defence in this action. The Milling Companies made an assignment last night, and I only represent the Assignee. The gentleman will, of course, take our default, but I should hardly think he would occupy the whole day.”

Holden stared silently at the speaker. The familiar scene darkened, faded, disappeared and flared up in a new light completely transforming it—a strange room with strange people—a stage setting in the white unmasking light of day.—A mocking face leered at him from a raised dais—mocking figures elbowed him with impatient scorn—mocking fingers pointed at him with derisive joy—fat clammy hands touched his breast and pushed him from the rail over which he glared with the most desperate hatred known to the world—the hatred of a man against mankind.

Then someone burst out laughing.

“What does he mean, Holden?”

Grafton’s voice sounded a mile away, but the words of Belden, Coates’ clerk, were clear enough as he whispered in Holden’s ear:

“Wasn’t it great? Kept you all off for over three years without a ghost of a defence! Our people only wanted time to get things fixed and we got it for them all right enough, I guess. Give you a dime for your judgment! I tell you——”

But Holden suddenly struck Belden across the mouth and was promptly adjudged guilty of contempt of Court.—Of which the payment of his fine did not purge him, an order of the Court to the contrary notwithstanding.