The Greatest Works of Arthur Cheney Train (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Cheney Train
it—at least for the moment.”
Judge Tompkins peered searchingly at the old lawyer.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing in particular. But I’ve a firm conviction that, in a situation so manifestly inequitable, justice is bound to triumph in the end,” replied Mr. Tutt earnestly. “I’ve got a vague sort of hunch that I read of a case something like this one, years ago, but I haven’t the remotest idea where.”
The business of an Appellate Division of the New York Supreme Court is to determine whether, on the facts proved at the trial of any case, the judge has rightly interpreted and applied the law. Throughout the entire procedure there is one unalterable rule—their decision must be made exclusively upon the record as sent up from below. Nothing can be added to or subtracted from it. As the justly celebrated Prof. James Bradley Thayer, of the Harvard Law School, used to say: “As we find it here, it is as it is, and whatever it is, this is it.”
Judge Tompkins’ decision in favor of the plaintiff in Gamage versus Kellogg was received throughout Somersett County with indignation. He must be a bum judge to let Squire Mason bamboozle him in any such fashion. Even poor well-meaning Mr. Lecky came in for a share of the universal odium. Justice! Boloney!
All the good burghers could do was to ostracize Judge Gamage and kick him out of the Order of Abyssinian Mysteries, and this they did with alacrity and enthusiasm. The Judge, however, did not seem to mind any of it in the least, clearly content to remain placidly fanning himself upon the veranda of the Tarleton house, awaiting the confirmation of the judgment in the Appellate Division, to which Mr. Lecky had, as a matter of form, taken an appeal. What did he care if Squire Mason was the only person who would speak to him? What was the good opinion of a parcel of hicks like Toggery Bill Gookin, Cy Pennypacker and Mose Higgins compared with fifty thousand smackers? He should worry!
But when he learned that Lawyer Ephraim Tutt had prolonged his vacation and was taking an incomprehensible interest in the case, he did begin to worry a little. Durn the old cuss! And had he known of a certain conversation between the old cuss and Ma Best, his own former landlady, he might have worried even more.
“How long has Judge Gamage adorned Pottsville?” Mr. Tutt had asked her meditatively, one evening after supper.
“About ten years. He lived here at the Phœnix House until he married Mrs. Tarleton.”
“How long?”
“Almost four years.”
“What was he a judge of, besides whisky?”
“Said he was a justice of the peace one time.”
“Ever see any of his mail?”
“No. He had a private box at the post office.”
“Didn’t he ever mention where he had come from?”
“Nary a word.”
Mr. Tutt coddled his long chin.
“When he left you—the time he married—did he take away all his belongings?”
“Sure!” Ma pursed her lips meditatively. “I donno. Come to think of it, I believe he did leave some old duds behind. They didn’t amount to nuthin,’ though. Seems to me, I put ’em in an old cracker box up in the attic. If I did, they’re up there yet.”
Twenty minutes later, Mr. Tutt and Ma Best, under the hanging kerosene lamp, were examining the duds on the dining-room table—a soiled collar, a frayed pair of old suspenders, a broken comb, a rusty pocketknife, a tobacco tin and an empty envelope addressed to “Hon. Thos. Gamage, Phœnix Hotel, Pottsville, N. Y.,” faintly postmarked “Topsfield, Iowa.”
That night Mr. Tutt sent a telegram to his legal handyman, Bonnie Doon, in care of Tutt & Tutt, Broadway, N. Y.
ASCERTAIN IDENTITY OF OLEAGINOUS EX-JUSTICE OF THE PEACE KNOWN AS THOMAS GAMAGE WHO LEFT TOPSFIELD IOWA SOME TEN YEARS AGO STOP THIS MAN MOUNTAIN WEIGHS ABOUT THREE HUNDRED POUNDS HAS A FACE LIKE A TUB OF BUTTER AND A SMILE THAT IS CHILDLIKE AND BLAND STOP CHARGE EXPENSES TO ME PERSONALLY AND DO YOUR STUFF
E TUTT
While Justice is proverbially blind, she is not necessarily either deaf or dumb. It is true that judges are not supposed to discuss the cases which come before them, but judges are human. There is a grapevine among the judiciary just as in most professions, and sometimes the grapes are sour. Mr. Tutt and his old friend, Tompkins, fished Chasm Brook several times together that spring, and perhaps all their conversations did not relate to Brown Hackles, Silver Doctors and Parmachenee Belles. Indeed, more than one letter passed between the two old men during the summer, pending the appeal, each containing cryptic references and esoteric symbols intelligible only to votaries of the law. And just as the maples were turning red and the air had a nip of autumn, Mr. Tutt was unexpectedly substituted as counsel for the defense for old Mr. Lecky, to the latter’s great relief.
The New York Appellate Division for the Fourth Department, in which Pottsville is located, sits in Rochester, and “Gamage versus Kellogg” was among the appeals set for argument at the October term. Dorothy, who had secured a job as governess to two children belonging to the Hillsdale summer colony, had lost it with their departure for the city and had found nothing to take its place. Alan, though rapidly improving, was still in Arizona. She had been living on credit for more than a month, and the future looked more than dark. Nevertheless, she resolved that nothing should keep her from going to Rochester to hear Mr. Tutt argue her appeal, even if she had no chance to win and had to walk to get there. When the morning came, she was surprised to find how many of her fellow townsmen had experienced the same impulse. Indeed, it seemed as if, in addition to Ma Best, most of the Sacred Camels of King Menelik had boarded the train with her.
“You just keep your courage up, dearie,” encouraged Ma as she squeezed in beside her. “If anybody can win your case for you, it’ll be Mr. Tutt. He knows more than all the judges put together.”
“I made up a limerick last night!” announced Toggery Bill Gookin proudly from across the aisle. “Listen, folks:
“There was an old fellow named Tutt,
Who at law surely knew what was what.
He’d twist any case
Into right-about-face,
And make the judge look like a nut!”
“Never knew you was a pote, Toggery!” exclaimed Sheriff Higgins, with genuine admiration. “But that’s good, I’ll say!”
“Why not make one about Gamage?” suggested Ma. “Let’s try! ‘There was an old buzzard named Gamage——’”
“‘Who always was up to some damage,’” supplemented Toggery. “Can’t finish it, though. Ain’t no other rhyme for ‘Gamage’ except ‘damage.’ I’ve been through the hull durn alphybet.”
“Never mind!” commented Mose. “Ma got the pint into the fust line.”
Dorothy glanced about the great courtroom timidly. It was already three-quarters full, but, since she wanted to hear everything Mr. Tutt had to say, she nerved herself to take one of the unoccupied front seats. On the other side of the room, Squire Mason was ostentatiously joking with her imperturbable stepfather. Inside the rail, the dignified clerk was arranging five little piles of pamphlets upon the dais before five empty chairs. If only the law were not so impersonal! Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Mr. Tutt’s tall, ramshackly figure beside her.
“Can’t you sit here with me?” she urged.
“I’d like to, my dear,” he smiled down at her. “But I’ve got to get nearer the bench. Some of those old bozos are a little deaf.”
“Have we any chance?”
He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
“Who knows? The law is always a gamble. No one can ever tell what judges will do.”