"Jedge L'yles' Co't"

Wyeth sneaked into the room without waking Thurman that morning. Nor did he inform him of his good fortune, when the other arose two hours later to go to work. He did not sleep any that night, and, since he had to be to the court at eight-thirty or forfeit his bond, he arose early, dressed, and in due time, he sat in the large theatre.

Perhaps if Sidney Wyeth had suspected what would come to pass that morning, he would have forfeited the bond by not putting in his appearance; but when he put up the collateral the night before, he had observed a mark of respect in the officers. He was sufficiently acquainted with the courts from a distance, to realize that the average Negro brought before that tribunal—with the possible exception of a boot-legger—seldom brought any money or had any at home, and invariably went in great numbers to the stockade. Moreover, the sargent and the clerk, too, had advised him that he might not possibly be fined at all. Therefore, when he left for the court, he had no thought other than that he would go free, and have his money returned.

"It will, of course," they had said, "depend upon how Judge Loyal feels when you appear."

He had heard something regarding this "feeling" before. He meditated as he made his way in that direction. And still he recalled more of what he had heard, which was to the effect that if "his stomach was upset, look out!"

He hoped Judge Loyal didn't suffer with dyspepsia or indigestion....

As he neared that place he now remembered so well, he was overwhelmed with memories. He recalled this same court, more than ten years before. It was in a leading magazine. It was, moreover, he recalled, an interesting story, too. "Wonder if it will prove so today," he mused silently....

And now he was inside the court room. He was early, and so were many others. He recalled, with another twitch of the memory, that Judge Loyal had presided ten years before. He would see him today. "There he is now," he said to himself, as an old man with white hair came upon the platform, and took a seat behind the bench.

But it was the clerk. Judge Loyal came later, so did others, many others.

And now all that he had read in that article many years before, suddenly came back to him clearly. It overwhelmed him. The article concerned that court—and Negroes—Negroes—Negroes—a court of Negroes. And now he was a part of them. Although on the outside, he felt guilty. He was supposed to answer when his name was called.

The court room was filling rapidly. They were herded behind huge doors, to the left of the room. Black men and a few whites. A mass of criminal humanity. He shuddered. He wished now to be over and out of it as soon as possible. And then he experienced a cold fear. It became stronger. It developed until it became a chilly premonition that Judge Loyal (Jedge L'yles, as these Negroes called him) would be feeling badly that day. This feeling persisted until it became a reality.

It was now eight-forty. In ten minutes court would begin. But still others came, and came, and came. Women and men, boys and girls—even children. And eighty per cent of them were Negroes, his people. Would they never quit coming? What manner of business did these people conduct that brought so many into court? And at last came the judge. He was, in all appearance, a young man. Evidently he was not, because Sidney had been told that he had been on that bench for twenty-five years.

Court was then opened. Inside a fencing, many white people sat in chairs. Who they were, or what part of the proceeding they represented, he could not tell. Prisoners were then being arraigned. From somewhere, he did not see, but it was not from the detention room where the "great" herd was, a young Negro of striking appearance was led forward. He was tall and slender, and what caught the attention of Sidney Wyeth was, that there was nothing criminal in his appearance. He was about twenty-five years of age, and wore shackles about his ankles, as well as upon his wrists. He made a pathetic picture. Sidney listened carefully, as he stood before the judge, while talking in an undertone. He could not hear what was said, but, presently, the prisoner was led outside and away. He never learned what charge was made against this young man, although he would have liked to know.

On a table that stood to one side of the bench, behind which the judge and clerk sat, were several cases of liquor.

Evidence against some poor devil was strong, thought Wyeth.

The gavel fell.

The first prisoner brought forward and placed before the judge, was a Negro of medium size and height, and about middle age. He did not possess the look of a criminal either. In fact, not all of these people, or any great part of them, appeared to be criminal, if Sidney Wyeth had observed criminology correctly. Yet there was a charge, himself for instance. This one was charged with having been drunk and making a big noise.

He admitted the charge.

"Where did you get it," demanded Judge Loyal.

"On Dalton street."

"Who from?"

"A nigga."

"Who was he?"

"A nigga."

"I don't mean that. What was his name?"

"Dunno."

"You don't know, yet you purchased enough liquor of him to get drunk, whoop it up and disturb the peace of the populace."

"Yassar."

"Did you ever see him before?"

"Nawsar."

"Was it corn whiskey or rye?"

"Niedda."

"Well—what was it?"

"Gin."

"Oh! Gin...."

"Sparrow Gin."

"Ten dollars and cost. Next!"

There was some delay before the next ones were brought forward. When they came, there was some anxiety. They were white men from one of the suburbs. As to how they happened to be in this court was a matter for conjecture; but the charge was fighting.

A witness mounted the stand by request.

"Your name is?—"

"Bill Sykes."

"William Sykes. Very well, William Sykes, what do you know about this affair? Tell it to the court."

"Yer' 'onah, Judge," began Sykes, drawing his jeans coat sleeve across his mouth. "Yistidy I left home 'bout four a-clock 'n' come dawn to Abe Thomas' store, as I usually do for some t'baccer."

"State what you know about this disturbance," cut in the recorder's voice. "The court has nothing to do about your tobacco."

"Well, 's I started to say. I come down after some t'baccer.——"

"Witness ordered removed from the stand. Put up the next," commanded the judge.

Bill Sykes was summarily removed, as he muttered: "This is shore an all fired place to tell somethin'."

"Your name is?"

"Silas Harris."

"Silas Harris, state briefly to the court what you know about this case."

"Well, sir, Judge, yer 'onah. It was sho'tly afta' fo' er-clock when I came down to Abe Thomas' store, 's I always do to get a chaw t'baccer."

The judge looked disgusted. Silas resumed.

"'N' I wa'nt no morn' inside before Chris Tuttle says, says he t' me, 'ah Si', says he t' me, ah gimme a chaw t'baccer. Then I says to him, says I t' him, 'ah Chris,' says I t' him, 'I ain' got no t'baccer, 'n' I jes' come down t' see 'f I couldn't get a chaw of'n you!' says I t' him; 'but,' says I, says I t' him. 'I ain' got no t'baccer, Chris,' says I t' him; 'but I God, I got some a 's good-a ole rosin as yer ever broke a tooth on.'"

"Case Nolle-prossed."

Several Negroes were brought before the bar for various misdemeanors, were fined and few dismissed, while a great many were bound over. The next case to arouse any special attention, pertained to two white girls who were brought forward with drooped heads, and made a picture that attracted the attention of the crowd. The recorder frowned, as he observed then questioningly.

"What's the charge?" he inquired of the officer, who presented himself as prosecutor.

"Soliciting."

"All right, prefer it."

"Your honor, Judge. I found these young women hanging around Dewitt and Carlton streets this morning about one o'clock, and advised them to 'beat' it. They disappeared for a spell, but at a quarter past two they were out again, and I heard them and saw them accost several men who happened to be coming from work. Presently a couple halted, and a few minutes later the four disappeared within a rooming house. I had been watching this house, and was positive it was crooked. I followed them a little later, and when I was inside, I looked about for a clerk and register that I did not find. Then I overheard talking in low tones in a couple of the rooms. When I knocked on the door, all was quiet and the doors were not opened. I then demanded the doors be opened in the name of the law. A scrambling followed, I heard windows go up, and a little later men hit the ground below. When I entered the rooms I found these young women alone, and put them under arrest."

The court room was very silent. All eyes were upon the prisoners. The fact that the girls were both beautiful seemed to provoke the judge, and he was very cold of demeanor.

"What excuse have you to offer for such acts of indiscretion?" he inquired presently, and eyed them severely.

They both burst out crying and clung to each other, which made a very pathetic picture. "We wasn't doing anything, Mr. Judge. Not anything. We lived there and the men were our husbands," said one, while the other cried woefully. The recorder eyed them critically, before speaking in a tone of extreme severity:

"Why, then, did they jump out the windows and run away.... Don't you think that was very cowardly for husbands?"

"O-oh," they cried now like two poor souls about to enter purgatory. They almost made others cry, too. But the judge was unbending. He looked forbidding, and as cold as steel as he said:

"Young women like you two should exercise more discretion. If you must conduct yourselves to the disgrace of the community in such manner, you should keep off the streets with your men at such ungodly hours. I am, therefore, going to impose a fine of $10 and costs upon each of you for delinquency. Next!"

"Boise Demon and Sidney Wyeth!" called the clerk with his eyes on the docket.

The pair now stood facing the court.

"Your Honor," began the officer, who had Wyeth in charge the night before, preferring the charge, "we found these fellows at two o'clock this morning, going in the direction of Warren street. And since, as you know, we have orders to intercept all people whose appearance is suspicious, and since they failed to give an account of themselves that was satisfactory, we considered it expedient to place them under arrest."

The recorder nodded his acquiescence.

"Your name?" he inquired of the chauffeur.

"Boise Demon."

"And yours?" of Wyeth.

"What's your occupation, Demon?"

"I'm a chauffeur 'n' wo'ks fo' Mr. Baron Ciders. You know him. 'Es mah boss. 'Es got a office in the—"

"Why weren't you at home in bed ten hours before you were charged with being on the street?" he demanded.

Demon's jaw fell. Sidney looked discouraged.

It was a self-evident fact now that Judge Loyal's stomach was out of order....

Demon's excuse was a variation that failed to impress the judge as being the truth. Wyeth languidly resigned himself to the inevitable.

"What is your occupation, Wyeth?" he now turned his gaze upon Sidney.

He was told.

"What's your excuse for being upon the streets at two A.M.?"

"Nothing!" calmly.

The judge regarded him in silence, while the pair waited for the sentence. Still the judge paused. As he did so, Wyeth heard him belch slightly, as if decided. A moment later came the words:

"Fine you fellows $5 and costs. You must keep off the street loafing about all night. Next!"

They were turned about automatically, and then Wyeth found himself looking down on a low, deformed creature. He had been told about him also, and why he was deformed.

It had come about during a terrific race riot of a few years before, and the incident will ever live in the history of Attalia. It was then this creature became crippled. He was, at the time, one of the strongest and most capable officers on the force. But, upon being sent to make an arrest, he happened onto a "bad" Negro, run amuck. He was, to say the least, however, far more fortunate than a dozen others, for they had been sent to their happy hunting ground before the riot was quelled. Since then, he had acted as a sort of bailiff.

Peeping up at Wyeth he said: "You have up collateral, do you not?"

"Pay me out, pay me out!" cried Demon, at this point.

Wyeth nodded.

"Then you step aside, and follow the officer downstairs to the clerk's office," he instructed.

"Pay me out, pay me out!" from Demon again.

Wyeth frowned and pinched him good. "I wish to confer in regard to this fellow," said he to hunchy, as they were being waited for.

In the detention room, Demon secured a loan of fifty cents from another miscreant, and a moment later, they stood before the clerk.

When the fines had been paid, the officer said: "Now Demon, you can go, but I am ordered to hold Wyeth as a suspicious character."

"Well I'll be damned!" was all Wyeth said.

"Take me at once before him," he cried, when they were again in the court room, at the same time flashing his check book which he had placed in his pocket for precautionary measures. Demon had followed them gratefully back up the stairs, and now stood about muttering in a low tone: "Ain' that Hell, ain' that Hell!" Wyeth motioned him aside, resolutely.

Once more he stood before his Honor. Upon recognizing him, the recorder looked at the officer with a question. His face had cleared of the frown it wore some time before, and Wyeth concluded his stomach was better.

The officer preferred the charge, whereupon he looked at Wyeth keenly. Wyeth made a motion. It was granted.

"I dislike, very much, your Honor, to be kept in this court room so unceremoniously. I am no criminal, and my time is worth something. Now if I may be permitted to put up more money, I have just paid a fine for being out late for myself, as well as for another, and go my way until this thing is done with, I'll appreciate it."

"Very well. Twenty-five dollars."

Wyeth paid it, and never returned to take it down.

When he got back to his room after it was all over, thirty-six dollars to the bad, he opened the book of resolutions and recorded therein:

"Resolved! That to give heed to the 'Call of the Wild' in Attalia, is a very expensive diversion, albeit a lesson; therefore, henceforth, twelve o'clock will find me in the land of nod."