# Quinby and Son/Chapter 11

IT would have been an insult to the hair-splitting technicalities of law to have called Justice of the Peace Manning a judge. Yet "Judge" was the title Springham gave him. However, the town suffered no illusions. It never believed that he knew much law, and still less did he believe it himself. A dignified jurist, sitting on the bench of a county or a district court, would have been amazed at his processes. He was not above eating an apple while a case was undergoing trial, and often he sat in his shirt sleeves and called complainants and defendants by their given names. Occasionally, when pompous lawyers from the city came before him to defend some one who had enough money to engage highpriced legal talent, the visiting lights gnashed their teeth and groaned in impotent fury at the way he swept aside legal formalities and got down to bedrock. For Judge Manning was interested only in getting at the truth, and it made no difference to him how he got at it. Springham was satisfied with his methods, and reëlected him time and again with monotonous regularity.
​At half-past seven the judge came to the municipal building and entered the room, across the hall from the police station, where he held court. He was followed by a motley collection of idlers, loiterers and curiosity seekers, eager for whatever excitement the night's trials might produce. Peg Scudder brought up the rear, wet from the rain but apparently unmindful of discomfort. He saw Bert on his bench, put his tawny head in through the doorway, took note of the sergeant, and withdrew across the hall to the court room.
Bert's heart began to throb with apprehension. In another half-hour the charge against him would be read, and he would have to face it. The Butterfly Man had said that he would be back. The boy glanced at the clock. Twenty-five of eight! A nervous dread shook him. Suppose Tom Woods was delayed.
The sergeant, gathering up a batch of papers, stepped across the hallway to the court room and left him alone. He was cramped from his long confinement on the bench, and the tremor in his nerves made him restless. The windows at the front end of the station looked down upon the street, and he walked the length of the room and stood gazing at the wet pavement. At any other time he might have thought the dripping January scene dreary; but now the outdoors represented a freedom from which the law had torn him and held him pending judgment.
​A man, shielded under an umbrella, came down the street and mounted the municipal building steps.
"Tom Woods," Bert said in relief. Then the umbrella came down and revealed his father's face.
This time all fear of meeting his father was engulfed by a more powerful emotion. A feeling that he had never known before—a desire to tell his faults in a torrent of words and throw himself upon his father's strength and mercy, swept over him. He was already halfway down the room toward the door when Mr. Quinby came into the station.
"Dad!" he said. "Dad, I. . . ."
"There, Bert." His father had him by the hand. "Everything's going to be straightened out. Iknow. We're going to wipe the slate clean and start afresh, and nothing like this will ever happen again."
He had not expected to be met like this; but the Butterfly Man had said, "You don't know fathers." The comfort of it ran through him and gave him strength.
"Being arrested is only part of it, Dad. You don't know it all. I went to Mr. Clud. . . ."
"And borrowed $175. I know all about that. You can forget Clud. He's been paid. That's done."
"You paid him," Bert said, and stared as ​though seeing his father in a light that had never shone over him before.
"Are you surprised?" the man asked. "Did you think I'd leave you in a trap like that and not come to your aid? We must have gone far off the road, Bert, to have come to such a pass."
"I was the one who got off the road," the boy protested miserably. "It was all my fault. I should have gone to you. . . ."
"It was both our faults. We saw things from different angles. I probably expected too much from you; you didn't have the courage' to expect enough from me, and I couldn't have given it to you, probably, because I didn't understand. To-morrow, the next day, every day, I want you to know that you can always come to me if you need help or advice."
"And if I begin to make a fool of myself," Bert choked, "you just grab me and put me right."
"I'll try to," said Mr. Quinby. "With Clud out of the way, how do you stand? Any other debts?"
"Oh!" Bert had forgotten, and dismay seized him. "We signed a year's lease on the store and it had six more months to run."
"At how much a month?"
"Twenty-two dollars and a half."
"That makes $135." The man winced a bit and then, remembering, caught himself. "We'll charge it up to experience. I've learned some​thing to-day, and so have you. It's cheap at the price."
Bert, speaking with respect and finality, refused to recognize any such bargain. "You pulled me out," he said, "but it isn't fair to make you stand it all. I've got to pay you back. I'll come to the store on Saturdays and help around. I'll work there all during vacation. Whatever I'm worth can go toward Mr. Clud and the lease money."
"It isn't necessary, Bert. I told you a moment ago some things are cheap at the price. I'm not a Clud."
"It was my mistake," Bert said with a new gravity, "and I ought to make good."
"Half, then," Mr. Quinby said suddenly. "This is a partnership, and I demand a partner's right. We'll split it."
Partnership! Bert thrilled. That was different. Quinby and Son! "Half, then," he agreed.
At that moment Sergeant Rockwell appeared in the doorway and told them that Judge Manning was ready to hold court.
Walking side by side, father and son crossed the hall. Bert was conscious of a sea of faces staring at him from the spectators' benches. Then the mass of faces faded out and only two remained—Bill Harrison, back toward the rear, plainly concerned, and Tom Woods in about the middle of the court room. The Butterfly Man ​gave him a quick, almost imperceptible, nod of encouragement.
Bert found a vacant place on the first bench and slid into a seat. Back of him arose a quick murmur of voices; his ears burned. Seated behind a high desk, Judge Manning held an animated discussion with Policeman Glynn. Promptly at eight o'clock the judge rapped sharply with a gavel, and as though by magic the murmur of voices ceased.
"This court," the judge announced, "is now in session."
The first case had to do with a man who had not cleaned snow and ice from his sidewalk.
"Any excuse?" the judge demanded.
The man had none.
"Two dollars fine. After this hire a boy to shovel your walk for seventy-five cents. It's cheaper, and may save somebody a broken leg. Next case, the State against Fred Ralston, charge reckless driving. Officer Glynn, you made the arrest. Be sworn."
Officer Glynn took oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Ralston, it appeared, had driven his automobile up on the sidewalk, and had narrowly missed hitting a woman and a child.
"Well, Fred," said the judge, "how about this? Was the road so narrow you couldn't see it?"
​"No, Judge. A fellow called to me and I turned my head to see who he was. Next thing I knew I was climbing over the curb."
"How long have you been driving a car?"
"Two years."
"And don't know enough yet to watch the road? How long were you looking the other way?"
"Not more than five seconds."
"Then I'm afraid we'll have to make it two dollars a second. A fine of ten dollars may make you more careful in the future. Next case, Samuel Sickles against Herbert Quinby, charge assault and battery."
Bert stood up and found that his knees were seized with a strange fit of trembling. It was only a few steps from his bench to the railing in front of the judge's desk, but the distance seemed to sap him and to leave him weak. A sweat broke out along his forehead; the shuffling of the spectators seemed to come to his ears as from a great distance. And then he felt an arm pressed against his—his father's arm.
Judge Manning stared down from his seat of power and looked at the complaint in doubt. "How about this, Harry," he said. "You're not mentioned in these papers. Are you mixed up in this case?"
"No, your Honor," Mr. Quinby answered. "My boy is in trouble and I'm here to see him through it."
​"Well, where's the complainant? Samuel Sickles!"
No answer.
"Sickles, step forward."
But no one came forward in answer to the summons.
Judge Manning ran an irritable hand through his straggly wisp of beard. "Who took this complaint? You, Sergeant? Did the complainant know he was to be here at eight o'clock? Did you tell him?"
"I told him the time," Sergeant Rockwell answered, "and he repeated it after me."
"Judge," piped a voice; "he won't be here to-night. He's gone away."
The judge adjusted his glasses and peered down the court room. "Who said that? Stand up and let me get a look at you."
A man stood up, a bit abashed by this sudden prominence into which he had been thrust.
"Oh! It's you, Dave Webb. What do you know about this Sickles?"
"Judge, I was at the station and saw him get on the 7:09 train for the city. He was carrying two suit cases."
Judge Manning slapped the desk with a show of impatience. "What do people mean by making complaints and not coming here when they're wanted? You're sure you know this Sickles, Dave?"
​"Yes, Judge. I bought things in Mr. Quinby's store when he was clerking there."
In any formal court of law a scene such as this would have been impossible. But Springham was used to Judge Manning's methods. Arraignments in his court were something of family affairs, and information was accepted from whatever source it could be obtained. The judge leaned forward and surveyed the boy who stood before the bar of justice.
"Bert, this fellow was a partner of yours, wasn't he?"
"Yes, sir." The surprising turn of events had bewildered the boy. "We were in business together."
"And you had a row. Huh! Strikes me that a lad of your age could be better employed helping his father than in trying to go it on his own. The complainant not having appeared there is nothing for me to do but to dismiss the case."
"Come, Bert," said his father.
It was the man who led the way from the court room. Bert's hand clung to his sleeve. Free! It seemed too much of a miracle to be true. Every worry swept aside! A wave of intoxicating relief ran through his veins. His father pushed open the municipal building door, and the night air, rain-soaked and fresh, came gratefully to his nostrils. Never had he Known that the outdoors could smell so sweet.
​The Butterfly Man came hurrying out after them. "Bert," he said, "I'm glad it turned out this way for your sake. I imagine Sam got thinking it over, figured he'd cut a sorry figure when the whole story came out, and decided to drop the complaint. As a matter of fact the person who should have had to face trial to-night is Clud."
"Did you see him?" Mr. Quinby asked.
The Butterfly Man's eyelids drooped a bit. "I saw him. I doubt if he has a soul, but if he has I think I blistered it. I had him squirming, anyway."
Bert, astounded, stared at his father. "Do you know Mr. Woods?"
"Know him?" Mr. Quinby smiled. "We're old friends. In fact I think he's coming to Springham in a couple of Sundays to have dinner with us."
"Glad to," the Butterfly Man answered promptly. "By the way, Bert, does your mother burn what she cooks?"
"No, sir."
"That's fine. That will be a real treat. I'm getting so I burn my food every day. And then, in the spring, your father and your mother are coming out to see my collection of beauties."
"They'll see something worth while," Bert said loyally. Yet he was puzzled. There was something queer some place. Of course, if his father said Mr. Woods was an old friend. . . . He ​shook his head. The problem was too deep for him. He was content to accept the situation as it stood.
Five minutes later the Butterfly Man was on his way back to the cabin, and Bert and his father went on to the store. Mr. Quinby telephoned home the result of the trial. He was at the instrument a long time, and when he came away he was humming under his breath. It was a long time since Bert had heard him sing to himself.
"You know," he said, "I'm hungry. I didn't have any supper to-night."
The mention of food made Bert conscious of an internal hollow. "Gosh! I haven't eaten since morning."
"You haven't? Why. . . . Oh! Too worried to eat. Wait around a few minutes. I haven't been in here much this afternoon; I want to see how things have been running. We'll go up the street to the chop house and have a bite . . . sort of party all our own."
The boy walked down toward the front of the store. Bill Harrison's face was pressed against the window, and the hand not needed for the crutch waved a frantic summons. Bert hurried out to him.
"It was all right, wasn't it," Bill asked, "to send for Tom Woods?"
"It was the best thing that ever happened," Bert told him. "I don't know what would have ​popped if he hadn't come. He made me see things."
"Oh, Tom Woods can always do that. I was on my way to the store to tell you something when I saw Sam come tumbling out."
"What were you going to tell me?"
"I've sold one."
"Sold one? One what?"
"A drawing. I sent a butterfly picture to a little nature magazine and this morning the editor sent me a check for a dollar. He wants me to send him some more."
Bill's face was radiant with happiness. His door had opened and had given him a glimpse of a promised land. Bert was no less pleased and thrilled.
"That makes you a real artist, doesn't it, Bill?"
"Well. . . ." Bill's voice came down to its humorous drawl. "I wouldn't say exactly that." All at once the drawl was gone. "But I'm coming," he said; "I'm coming."
The words, the tone in which they were uttered, had a heroic ring. After Bill had left Bert stood there on Washington Avenue unaware that the rain had ceased and that the storm was over. Coming! That was it. Working in the right channels, gaining a step each day, playing fair with those who had your interests at heart, winning a reputation as one who held his head and could not be stampeded.
​Mr. Quinby came from the store. "Ready, Bert?"
"Coming," he said, with the same ring in his voice that had been in Bill's, and went forward, his head up, to meet his father.
The end