Life — September 2, 1915 — page 17: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

were posted only nineteen days instead of twenty, as the law requires, the ar- ticles of incorporation were illegally adopted. Therefore, the town is non- existent. Its officers have no right to levy or collect taxes, to sue or to be sued, to receive or pay out moneys.” LAF’ E* “Good heavens!" Allen felt himself slowly collapsing on the table, sick in every organ described by the specialists. “Sometimes,” smiled Betty, as she glanced out of the window toward the hardware store— sometimes a lawyer gets his.” The Joke on Preston ‘Dy Lewis Allen “LJAS the prisoner secured counsel?” “No, your honor,” responded District Attorney Masters. Judge Horton looked over the tops of his steel-rimmed spectacles, first at the unkempt prisoner, and then around the court room. “The court will provide counsel for your defense. Have you any choice?” he asked the prisoner. The prisoner had not. Ile didn’t know one man from another in the court room, A faint suspicion of a smile showed on District Attorney Masters’s face. He winked slyly at several of his brother attorneys, and even smiled rather know- ingly at the judge when he made the suggestion that the court appoint Mr. Freston attorney for the defense. A litter went around the court room at this, and young John Preston flushed to thé roots of his yellow hair as he arose and went forward to consult with his client. “Honest to God, are you a lawyer?” asked the prisoner, in a voice that car- tied, It took nearly two minutes to re- store decorum. In spite of his embarrassment young Preston thanked the court and asked for a day’s postponement in order to acquaint himself with his client's case. This was granted, and after adjournment the Dis- trict Attorney took young Preston aside, put his hand patronizingly on his shoulder and said: “Great Scott, Johnnie, give the poor devil a square deal! The only thing in the world for him is a plea of guilty and a request for leniency.” “Thank you, sir,” said Preston rather stify, “but I at least want to know something of my client's case.” “Now, now, Johniie, you must learn to take things in the proper spirit. Every young lawyer must have his first case, and he must expect a certain amount of good-natured raillery over it, and, believe me, it isn’t every young man fresh from law school who gets a murder case for the very first thing. Be sensible about it, boy. I'm advising you for your father’s sake. know.” “Yes, I know,” answered Preston. “Oh, don't be stubborn, Johnnie! Why, dash it all, the prisoner has con- fessed! “A great many innocent men have confessed under the third degree,” and young Preston bowed rather too formally and turned on his heel. “He'll get the chair if you fight the case,” snapped the District Attorney “He'll get the chair—or liberty, sir, was all young Preston replied, and he hurried over to the jail, where he was sceluded in the cell with his client, the prisoner. It wasn’t much of a story the prisoner teld. He said his name was Farral, that he was a plain hobo, and that with an- cther hobo he had got into a fight with a freight brakeman who wouldn't let them jump the train. Both picked up lumps of coal to defend themselves, and in the mix-up the poor brakeman’s skull was crushed. He managed to shoot and Kill the other hobo, but he died before they got him to the hospital. Young Preston said nothing for five minutes. Farral became nervous. Fi- nally he said: “Say, kid, I ain't blamin’ you any. You gotter have your first case some time, and so they wished you on me. The only thing to do is to plead guilty to self-defense— “Never do,” said young Preston. “There isn't a juryman in the county who would agree to justifiable homicide.” “But I confessed, kid; I confessed. Whatcher goin’ to do about it now?” “Just what did you say? Give me the exact words.” “T says to the captain, ‘Don’t put me through no third degree. I killed him!’” “What made you say that?” “They'd put it on me anyway thought it would help me.” “What was the name of the man with you?” “1 don't before.” We were partners, you know. I never saw him 417 “His name was Ichabod Jones,” said Preston impressively, “and don't you ever forget it. Remember, you have known this man for a long while and that he went under the name of ‘ Black Ike, Preston talked a half-hour longer with the man and drilled him over and over before he left him. When the case came up the prosecution introduced witnesses sufficient to prove that the brakeman had been killed and then introduced the confession. “We rest the case there, your honor,” said District Attorney Masters, with somewhat of a flourish. Young Preston put his client on the stand without delay and had him tell his story of the fight, which was to the effect that it was not he, but the other man, who killed the brakeman. “What was the other man’s name? asked Preston. Ichabod Jones,” replied the prisoner; at least, that's what he told me.” “How did you always address him? “T always called him Ike.” You may tell the court just what you id in this alleged confession.” “T didn't make no confession, I said to the captain, ‘Don't put me through no third degree. /ke killed him.” And, for all that the prosecuting at- torney could prove to the contrary, Ike” did. Arletta By Margaret Ade T was on a Monday morning in August that Miss Backbay climbed the brown- stone steps to the rooming-house con- ducted by Mrs. Edward Southend in Massachusetts Avenuc, Boston. Miss Backbay was short, stout and sixty, and her face was flushed and scowling. “1 wish to speak with Mrs. Southend,” she snapped at the woman who opened the door. The woman, a middle-aged, quict-looking little woman, glanced at the card and said: “TI am Mrs. Southend, Miss Backbay; come this way, please.” In the parlor Miss Backbay and Mrs. Southend looked into each other's cyes for a few moments and exchanged a silent challenge; then Miss Backbay leaned forward in her chair and said: “T have come, Mrs. Southend, to talk with you concerning this—this affair be- tween your son and my niece, Miss Arletta Backbay. I have, as you know, brought her up, and I her as if she were my own daughter. She is the last of the Backbays—the Backbays of love comichbooks.