The Forged Note. Micheaux Oscar
despite the precarious condition Wyeth realized he was in, he smiled.
"He's sho got a bad 'pinion a-you, son," laughed Wyeth's cop.
"I'll go t' bed eve' night at nine 'clock—eight 'f you say so," begged the chauffeur, as they neared the patrol box.
While they were waiting for the "wagon," the copper with the chauffeur in charge turned that worthy over to the other cop, and ran across the street to intercept another Negro. That one happened to be a waiter who worked at night, and was, accordingly, allowed to go his way; but he had been off work since ten o'clock. Wyeth and the chauffeur had left him at the palm garden when they departed, but that was no argument now. The other went his way, whistling cheerfully, while they stood prisoners of the law.
It was a dreadful experience for Sidney Wyeth.
A mighty but familiar jingling of bells proclaimed that the "wagon" was on the way, and in an incredibly short time they were pushed inside. As the door closed, with a bigger cop than the others between the culprits (?) and the door, these words came to Wyeth's ears: "Idling and Loitering!"
"Youse the cause a-this," accused the chauffeur angrily.
Wyeth laughed outright.
"How c'n you laf 'n' us on the way t' the lock-up!"
Wyeth laughed in earnest now, while the bull smiled naively.
"I wish I'd a-neve' seen you," said the other wearily.
"It's vain to make such wishes now;" and then something occurred to him. He had been to the bank, but had, fortunately, not deposited all he had. "Say, Governor," he cried, "if a man should put up money when he is taken before the clerk, or whoever it is that receives us, would they allow him to return without locking him up?" His inquiry was eager. The other replied:
"Most assuredly."
"Good! How much will I have to put up to keep from being locked up?"
"About ten dollars and seventy-five cents."
Wyeth did some counting. "I have ten fifty. Will they let me out on that?"
"I think so."
"What you goin' do 'bout me?" put in the chauffeur.
"Do about you!" said Wyeth. "What you going to do about yourself? I'm not your guardian."
"But I ain' got bu' fifty cents," he wailed despairingly.
"Then methinks you will sleep on Dalton street tonight."
They had arrived at the station by this time. Wyeth recalled a few hours before with a feeling of awe, as he recognized the place and the words the man had used.
"What's your name?" demanded the clerk of the chauffeur.
"Boise Demon."
"Yours!"
Wyeth gave it, and as the clerk made a record of it, he made inquiry regarding a bond.
"All right. Ten seventy-five."
"I have but ten fifty."
"See the sargent."
"What's the charge?" inquired that orderly, coming forward.
"Id'ling and loitering."
"Let him off for ten."
"Pay me out, pay me out!" trembled the chauffeur.
"Shut up!" commanded Sidney. "Haven't you heard me say I had but ten fifty?"
"Then do'n go, do'n go; stay with me!"
"Like Hell, I will!" exclaimed Wyeth with a laugh. The officers standing about, laughed also, and said:
"Don't be 'fraid, honey. You'll have lots a-company."
Wyeth handed over ten dollars, and a moment later passed into the street where a soft rain was falling. "Jesus," he muttered; "I'm sure glad I kept that money." And then, ere he had got far, he heard a cell door clang, and thought about Demon. At the same moment, there came to his ears the music of many throats singing: "Don't you leave me here!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"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