Mortmain Part 43

"Jurors, look upon the defendant. Defendant, look upon the jurors. How say you, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?" asked the clerk grandiloquently.

"Not guilty," answered the foreman distinctly, and with a shade of defiance in his voice.

"Listen to your verdict as it stands recorded," continued the clerk, unaffected. "You find the defendant not guilty, and so say you all."

"Any other charges against the prisoner?" inquired his honor.

"Not yet," replied the a.s.sistant with sarcasm.

Suddenly Candido began again. "Madonna! Save me! I confess that I killed Beppe, my countryman----"

The bifurcated interpreter jabbered furiously at him. An expression of dumb amazement overspread the dusty little face.

"You are free, acquitted, discharged; you may return to your home!"

announced the beard dramatically, waving a hand in the direction of the door. The officers lowered Candido slowly to his feet. He picked up his hat. Abject wonder was painted upon his countenance. He gazed from the judge to the jury, and back again to the prosecutor.

"Madonna! I am pardoned for killing Beppe? _O giudici_, I kiss your hands." He seized that of the interpreter and devoured it with kisses.

Then with a smile he added: "Ah, you see I could not but kill him! He had ruined my home! He had deprived me of honor!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "He caught sight of the waiting Maria."]

The attendants faced him toward the door, and he started slowly away; but before he had taken half a dozen steps he caught sight of the waiting Maria. His face changed. Once more he turned to the interpreter and muttered something hoa.r.s.ely beneath his breath.

"He says," translated the interpreter, turning to the court, "that he would like to have his pistol."

THE LITTLE FELLER

Five feet high, in a suit of clothes three sizes too large for him, he stood in the doorway of my office impa.s.sively examining a card which he held in his hand and looking doubtfully about the room.

"I want to see the a.s.sistant district attorney," he said.

"Well, this is the right place," I answered in as encouraging a tone as I could a.s.sume.

"I want to see you--to speak with you. That lawyer company----"

"Oh, the Legal Aid? What do you want to see me about?"

"The little feller," he replied, taking a step forward and grasping his flat Derby hat firmly before him with both hands.

"What's the trouble?"

"It's the little feller--Isaac--they have arrested him for larceny." He spoke the words in a matter-of-fact--rather hopeful--altogether engaging manner.

"Larceny, eh! How old is he?"

"Eight. But he didn't do nothin'. He was out with some bad boys, but he didn't do nothin' and the cop arrested him with the others. That's all.

I came down to get him off, if I could." He smiled frankly.

"What's your name?" I inquired, for ingenuousness of that sort is uncommon among the Jews.

"Abraham Aselovitch--my father is Isidore and my mother she is Rachael Aselovitch."

"And this little fellow--is he your brother?"

"Sure."

"When does his case come up?"

"Next Monday in the Children's Court." He s.h.i.+fted his position.

"Well, even if he is found guilty they will probably only send him to the Juvenile Asylum."

"That's it--Juvenile Asylum. It's a bad place. I don't want him to go there," replied the boy with determination.

"Why not, Abraham?" I inquired.

"It is a bad place. He will meet bad boys there--like the ones that got him into trouble," he responded with an eager look.

"It's not such a bad place," I ventured.

"I know what it is!" he retorted fiercely. "They make criminals there.

Good boys are put in with the bad. It makes no difference. One makes the other bad. Isaac is a _good_ boy."

"How about the evidence?"

"I think they will convict him," remarked Abraham conclusively. "Those cops will swear to anything."

"Oh, it isn't as bad as that," I answered with a smile. "Still, I'm afraid I can't get him off, particularly if the evidence would warrant his conviction. After all, perhaps the Juvenile is the best place for him, or maybe" (the thought struck me) "they will parole him in the custody of his mother."

"No, they won't!" he cried with harsh vindictiveness. "She _wants_ him to go there. The little feller, he makes too much trouble for her. She don't want that she should have to clean up after him. She don't want to have to cook for him." His eyes filled. "My mother, she has no use for the little feller--but he's all I've got."

"Do you work?"

"Sure, every morning I go with my father at six o'clock, and I work all day until seven. Then I come home, and the little feller is lying in my bed and I put my arms around him and go to sleep."

"Six until seven!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, that is the time my father works, and I work for him--on the pants."

"My G.o.d! A sweatshop!" I murmured. "Don't you ever have any fun?"

"Sure I do. Sat.u.r.days we don't do no work an' I take the little feller down to Coney, an' sit on the sand all day with him. Do we have fun?

Well, say, I guess!"