# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 41/Number 6/The Proof

Extracted from Red Book magazine, Oct. 1923, pp. 85–89, 108, 110. Illustrations may be omitted. A “Little 'Nias” story.
The Proof
By Harris Dickson
Judge Dickson was born in Mississippi and lives in Vicksburg: he knows the American negro and has a marvelous faculty of depicting his quaint and amusing aspects—as witness the famous “Old Reliable” and “Sunlover Sam” stories, and the delightful chronicles of little 'Nias, Aunt Cannie and her astonishing orphanage, of which the story printed herewith is one of the most engaging.
HER bare shanks wabbled in a pair of men's brogans as the cadaverous creature sat crouching on a low stone wall above which ran a privet hedge. Beyond the hedge a green lawn sloped upward to the whiteness of a vine-grown villa, and sheltered children at their play—incongruous background for this mummy woman whose intensely living eyes glittered from her dead and shriveled face.
“'Nias,” she muttered to the black boy who stood holding his toy wagon. “'Nias, us done well. Got plenty grub to feed dem orphants two days.”
“Sho is.” Little 'Nias chuckled at the basketful of scraps on his wagon, for never in his hand-to-mouth career had the waif been certain of a full day's ration.
During those predatory years before Aunt Cannie relieved the Police of responsibility for 'Nias, the incorrigible imp had infested Levee Street, and North Washington, where older but not wiser offenders congregated. Now the daily task of helping to collect tribute for Aunt Cannie's orphans opened new vistas to his imagination. By dragging his wagon from house to house of rich white folks, 'Nias began to see how the other half lived, the upper half of a world that he knew intimately from its under side. And the prejudices of his eleven-year lifetime grew weaker as it developed that an old negro woman actually had pals among these big bugs, among a class of beings whom the hostility of 'Nias hitherto regarded only as people who would one day send him to the penitentiary. Not that 'Nias particularly objected to a penitentiary, or comprehended what it meant, except as an interlude to the activities of any negro who picked up things. Inconvenient, perhaps, but having advantages; for many times he'd heard grown-up criminals say: “Better let dat nigger 'lone. He's a bad nigger. Been in de pentenchery fo' times.” As 'Nias was so small, and most of his annoyances came from being interfered with, the child looked forward to a happy time when his accomplices might say: “Let 'Nias alone. 'Nias is a bad nigger.” To be let alone stood for a state of future joy.
However, his ambitions changed upon that illuminating day when he first followed Aunt Cannie through the back gate of Mrs. J. Garner Wyndham, and the charitable lady gave 'Nias this wagon. A new thrill tingled in every vein of the tiny black anarchist with the possession of property not liable to confiscation by its owner. This wagon was his; nobody could deprive him of it. Not only that, but a curious phenomenon occurred, quite beyond his comprehension except that it happened: One night a negro boy stole his wagon and sold it to a white man; then the most inveterate persecutor of 'Nias, Sergeant Cronin, actually took that wagon from the white man and restored it to 'Nias. Cronin said it was the law, a legal novelty that got 'Nias all mixed up. He previously conceived the law to be an evil power by which white folks grabbed things from niggers, gave back the things to white folks, and put the negro in jail. That's how the law had always operated.
So 'Nias dimly realized that it might be easier to forage with Aunt Cannie in daylight, and get what he wanted, rather than be boosted over a transom at night by some bigger negro who beat him out of his share. In fact, under the chaperonage of Aunt Cannie, the bewildered child staggered through a muddle of regeneration, mental, not moral; for 'Nias had no morals to regenerate. Honesty might be the better policy; he'd tried both.
Whether 'Nias were married to his honesty for better or for worse, he found it wearisome. All that tramping day he and Aunt Cannie had been hoofing it; now they were two miles from home, with a heavy load, and he turned hopefully toward a street-car that was stopping at the Country Club.
“Aunt Cannie, is us goin' to ride from here?” the child queried; then at a shake of the old woman's head, he added sturdily: “But I aint tired.”
Yet he continued to observe the car, and saw a couple of negro boys, named Kewp and Bud, running along beside it, holding up their fingers and shouting:
“Caddie? Caddie?”
Being unfamiliar with customs in this remote corner of the earth, 'Nias couldn't figure what they were doing, and asked no questions. The chief worriment of his former trade had been meddlesome questions that folks persisted in shooting at him, which 'Nias never answered. Now he merely received and filed the information when Aunt Cannie glanced up from her seat on the wall and volunteered:
“White folks comes out here to play goff.”
What “goff” was, or why anybody should play it, never pestered the kinks of Ananias. That was their business. He saw Lawyer Henry Madison step off the car, with Lawyer Will Avery—who had sent Luke the Looter over the road. Lawyers were mighty good white folks for little 'Nias to steer clear of; so he edged closer on the wall to Aunt Cannie and heard the old woman mutter:
“Dem's de lawyers fer Parson Brutus. His case is comin' up agin nex' week. Dat Babcock nigger's contrivin' to land old Brutus in de pen.”
“What's Uncle Brutus scused of?”
“Sump'n concernin' of a cow,” the ancient woman told him. “Huh! Brutus had no business claimin' dat stray cow. But when he sot in to argufyin' dat she was his'n, nobody couldn't beat nothin' else into him. He oughter tote some gumption in his head, in place o' totin' dat testyment onder his arm.”
“Babcock's crooked,' Nias remarked irrelevantly.
“Co'se he is. Fixin' to git a lot o' young niggers in trouble.”
“An' don't give 'em deir half o' what dey fetches in!”—which to the integrity of 'Nias made Babcock seem like a corkscrew. The well-informed 'Nias might have specified details of Babcock's fraudulent divisions if his attention hadn't drifted back to the lawyers. The car was gone, out to the end of the line, and Madison was giving Kewp a straight talk.
“No, Kewp, I'm going to try another boy. Can't get you to watch my drives. You lost two balls for me yesterday.”
The sullen Kewp hung his head, as Madison caught sight of Aunt Cannie, and turned away from him.
In the estimation of 'Nias, Henry Madison stood tolerably high—for a lawyer. Last Christmas he had invited Aunt Cannie's flock of orphans into a store and given them each a pair of shoes—which showed a kind heart but a weak head, for 'Nias never wore shoes. Yet the lawyer meant well, and so the boy accorded him a grin of tolerant recognition as Madison said:
“Well! Well! Here's Aunt Cannie. Waiting for your car?”
“No suh, Mr. Henry. Shank's mare is plenty good fer me. I been ridin' dis ol' mare for more'n a hund'ed years.”
“A hundred?” Madison laughed incredulously. “Aunt Cannie, really, how old are you?”
“Done tol' you, chil'. When I fust come to Vicksburg, Miss'ippi River warn't no bigger'n a creek.”
“You're not going to walk all the way from here to Fort Hill? That's two miles.”
“Shucks, honey; I does it ev'y day in de week, for'ards back ag'in.”
“Your car's coming now. Take this money and get on.”
“Thankee, Mr. Henry. Dey wont tote dis waggin, so I'll jes travel 'long wid 'Nias.”
“No, carry your basket on the car, and let 'Nias stay here to caddie for me.”
“Huh! Dat'll be nice fer 'Nias—jes like play. An' mebbe you'll give him two bits.”
The child's eyes sparkled. He was going to play goff, and get two bits. His thin black legs bent under the basket as he hoisted it aboard the car; then with his empty wagon he turned to follow Madison. The surly caddies glowered upon this interloper, but 'Nias paid no attention, even when Kewp spoke sulkily:
“Mr. Madison, dey don't 'low no sech boy in de club.”
“They'll allow him with me. Come along, 'Nias.”
Other crimes might be condoned, but not this felony of breaking into the corporation of caddies. The two lawyers strolled ahead, up a long plank walk toward the clubhouse, while diminutive 'Nias trudged behind, dragging his wagon.
“Le's me an' you beat him up,” Kewp whispered to his partner.
“Do it yo' own se'f,” Bud partially agreed. “He tuk yo' man.”
The larger and wrathful boys dogged at 'Nias' elbow, badgering him in undertones.
“Git off dis place.”
“Oughter stayed in jail whar dey had you.”
“Stole Mrs. Gibson's jew'lry.”
“Totes whisky fer Cooney Bug.”
To these traitorous but truthful accusations, the little boy never blinked or turned his head. Such allegations bored him; they were not new to 'Nias, nor the proof thereof. He trudged on serenely, with a balky whiteness at the corner of his eyes which bluffed the bigger boys from touching him. They prudently fell back to where Kewp caught the tail end of his wagon, the sacred property that was his. 'Nias tried to jerk loose, but couldn't budge. At first he uttered no sound—only pulled like a vicious mule. Then from between tight shut teeth he growled:
“Leggo, Kewp! Leggo! Dis is my waggin.”
“Make me! Make me!”
'Nias need only lift a voice for help, but his self-reliance always fought its own battles. Encouraged by the child's silence, Bud also laid profane hands upon his property, and both the taunting caddies swung backward. 'Nias resisted with indignant strength, then suddenly let go, giving his wagon a shove which sent his tormentors sprawling.
“Hurry on, 'Nias,” Madison called. “Don't stop to play.”
“I aint playin'!” he grinned as he retrieved the wagon. And his skinny black legs moved on unhindered until he climbed the last slope to the clubhouse.
“Wait for me at the side door.” Madison pointed, passing in himself at the front.
The scowling Kewp and Bud didn't follow, but sneaked around to the back, where they tattled into Sam's ear.
When Madison picked up his golf-bag and stepped out, he heard an angry voice in the side yard, and saw Sam, the colored porter, gripping 'Nias by the collar.
“Get out o' here, Nias!” Sam was enforcing his order. “Didn't I tell you never to set foot on dis place?”
'Nias struggled silently, one hand clutching his wagon, the other little fist tightly doubled, while he glared at the ring of jeering caddies.
“What's the matter, Sam?” Madison inquired.
“This boy!”—shaking the defiant desperado. “I don't 'low his kind on the links. You understan', Mr. Madison, there's a lot o' stealin' goin' on, kids like him is doin' it.”
Madison knew what the porter alluded to, that Vicksburg was bedeviled by an outbreak of burglary and sneak-thefts, supposed to be the work of youngsters, under the direction of an experienced head. Naturally 'Nias' record drew suspicion upon him, and Madison looked straight at the boy. But he met the inquisition so frankly that Madison acquitted him.
“That's all right, Sam,” he smiled. “I'll be responsible for 'Nias.”
“If you say so, suh.” Grudgingly the porter let go, while the disgusted caddies moved away.
“'Nias,” Madison asked, “did you ever caddie?”
“No. But I kin.”
“Good! Take this bag and come with me.”
Throughout his encounter with Sam, 'Nias had never turned loose the wagon. Now he threw in the golf-bag, and followed his boss, until Madison looked back to say:
“Here, Nias! Leave your wagon.”
“No. I takes dis ev'y place I goes.”
“But you can't chase golf-balls with that.”
“Yes, I kin. Dis waggin runs swif'.”
“Oh, Sam,” Madison beckoned laughingly, “please keep his wagon until 'Nias gets back.”
Sam was not pleased; neither was 'Nias, who suspiciously inspected the porter. “Whar you aim to put dis?”
“In my storeroom.”
“Den lock it up,” 'Nias ordered briefly.
THE still sullen Bud, who was Avery's caddie, skirmished ahead on the fairway, while 'Nias trailed his boss, and now stood observing preliminaries at the tee. White folks certainly did have funny ways; 'Nias tried to display no superiority as he eyed the big lawyer squatting down, pranking with a pinch of sand. It appeared like he just couldn't get that sand rigged up to suit him. He made a little hill, patted it down with his palm, brushed the hill away and built it up again, then set a ball on top. And him a grown man! The ball rolled off, and so Madison had to fix the sand all over again. He and that other lawyer kept arguing and arguing about how sand ought to be fixed, until Lawyer Madison noticed 'Nias, and spoke right sharp:
“Here! Don't hang around me. Go down there near the other boy.”
“Me an' Bud don't git 'long,” 'Nias objected.
“Fine! Have nothing to do with Bud.”
“I wont. What you aim fer me to do?”
“See this ball?” The lawyer held it up. “I'm going to drive it, out there somewhere. When it hits the ground, you must be right there.”
“An' fetch it back?”
“No! No! Your job is only to see where it falls.”
“Don't I hit it none?”
“No! You must go to my ball where it drops, and wait for me.”
“Huh! Is dat all?” Disgustedly 'Nias strode down the hillside to do two bits' worth of what he was told. At every drive his keen eyes followed the ball in flight, and two nimble legs hustled him underneath, surely as a fly to center field always finds a waiting glove to receive it.
The lawyers played a leisurely game, and at the seventh tee settled down together on a bench, where Madison remarked:
“Will, Brutus Elmore's case is bothering me.”
“Me and you both,” his associate counsel nodded. “I'm afraid they'll convict our client next time.”
“I don't believe old Brutus would steal anything,” Madison insisted, “but it's a strong case against him, a very strong case.”
While the attorneys rested, the weary 'Nias was willing to lie on the ground beside them and listen instead of chasing balls. It didn't tire his legs nigh as much. He saw that the white folks were bothered. 'Nias never considered that white folks had to bother about anything. But these white folks were troubled, for an indictment charging one Brutus Elmore with grand larceny had worried his volunteer defenders out of all proportion to its professional importance; for they were getting no fee and a cow-stealing case added nothing to their reputations.
Yet the case itself piqued them, with its sinister and baffling undercurrents. On the surface it seemed a common story: For years Brutus Elmore had been preaching at Sheba Church, to a few old-time negroes who reveled in the old-time religion, and plenty of shouting. Everybody knew old Brutus. In mating season, he'd hang around the courthouse with a pair of octagonal specs, and a battered testament under his arm, waylaying every colored couple to whom the clerk issued a license. Then Parson Brutus tied 'em up tight for a dollar, cash or credit. The paths of their shepherd suited his simple-hearted sheep, until a fashionable element crept into the flock, an ambitious and dressy minority whom the old guard derided as “uppity.” These social climbers itched for a stylish pastor, and talked about electing the glib-tongued Professor Babcock.
AT the first trial of Brutus, his lawyers had observed this Babcock personage strutting around in a swing-tail coat, and a clerical collar that had no front gate. All the younger women in Sheba Church were his supporters, and from them came the most damaging testimony against Parson Brutus—which made defendant's counsel suspect that this prosecution was being pressed for the purpose of ousting an obsolete preacher. But why did the pretentious Babcock crave to fill a poverty-stricken pulpit? Neither Madison nor Avery could guess.
Naturally they didn't think of consulting 'Nias, who lay beside his caddie-bag, digging one stubby toe in the turf and listening to every syllable. 'Nias always listened, and picked up tips. By listening to everybody he once had heard a white lady remark in getting out of her automobile that she'd left her jewelry on the dresser, with nobody at home—so Luke the Looter knew precisely where to find it. And once the cunning eyes of little 'Nias had seen Mrs. Wilson's cook hide her kitchen key under a brick beneath the back steps, to let herself in next morning without rousing the family. Luke got in before morning, and never waked a soul. Of course 'Nias had reformed since then, but use doth breed a habit in a man. Now he listened, and heard Lawyer Madison say to Lawyer Avery:
“Will, this looks like a frame-up.”
“Possibly so,” Avery half agreed. “But the proof shows that the cow belongs to old Jim Deason.”
Jim Deason, a negro farmer who lived fourteen miles in the country, had positively identified his cow, and a dozen neighbors corroborated him. Two months after she disappeared, Jim discovered the same cow in the lot of Parson Brutus. But old Brutus stuck to it, swearing that he had milked that cow for three years, and that she was the mother of his wooly bull calf, which figured conspicuously in the evidence.
“Will,” Madison persisted, “if we can prove that she is the mother of that calf, we'll get him off.”
“Sure; but nobody can swear to that—except the cow.”
White folks had funny notions, and 'Nias grinned at the idea of a cow swearing to anything; then he sat up and asked warily.
“Mr. Lawyer, is you seekin' to make Uncle Brutus come clear?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“No, not me. Dunno nothin' 'bout dat ol' nigger.”
On principle 'Nias always denied information which pertained to a courthouse scrape.
Then the attorney's groping mind reverted to Babcock, and he asked: “Will, why does Babcock want to be pastor of Sheba Church?”
“Search me,” the younger lawyer answered.
A search of 'Nias might have discovered something, for he knew precisely why Babcock needed a visible occupation. What did Luke the Looter do when he first hit Vicksburg? Did Luke hang around pool-rooms and let the police suspect him? Not much! He started a swell pressing-club, and joined the lodges. That's why Professor Babcock, tarred with the same stick, aimed to be a preacher.
“IF Your Honor please,” the square-jawed prosecutor suggested while every eye in a jammed courtroom fixed itself upon him. “That closes the evidence, Your Honor, and we now desire this jury to view the cow. She's tied out there in the yard.”
Judge Brien glanced over his specs at defendant's counsel; whereupon Madison arose and said: “We interpose no objection, Your Honor.”
There was no use to object, and matters could not be made worse. Madison was snake-bit and going to die anyhow, and so he courteously agreed.
This second trial puzzled him and Avery even more than the first. Far more definitely it showed the earmarks of a factional fight in Sheba Church, with Babcock as the cynosure of women's eyes, and general manipulator of strategy. Twice during its progress, defendant's counsel caught a vague hint that some unknown person brought Jim Deason's cow by night and turned her into the parson's lot. But they could establish none of this by legal evidence.
“Clear the aisle!” called the sheriff; then twelve good men and true filed down the stairway, with negroes cascading behind them like a tumbling waterfall in blacks and tans.
The duck-legged defendant shuffled out between his lawyers, advertising his radiance in the spotlight. He patronized all friends with a nod, scowling at all enemies, and grinning when the rabble whispered: “Dar he goes! Dat's him!”
The courthouse of Warren County perches upon a terraced hill-top, presenting one Corinthian facade to each of the four winds. Cows are not tolerated in its yard. They fail to harmonize with Corinthian architecture. But the prosecuting attorney had his dander up.
A bailiff held open the east doors while the sheriff passed out, with jurors two and two, and the lawyers. Then a bulging torrent of negroes burst through, scattering, to swarm again around a tree at which the hotly controverted cow stood tethered. Madison smiled to observe how they grouped themselves in partisan formation, as delegates to a national convention assemble beneath their respective banners. Wherever he saw a patch of gaudy color and bobbing plumes, there was marshaled a batallion of the Babcock Suffragettes. But every duller patch of cooks, washerwomen, and draymen wearing their gunnysack aprons, marked a phalanx of the old guard maintaining the innocence of Parson Brutus.
The cow, being introduced in evidence, was legally presumed to speak for herself, like a written contract. But this cow didn't; she was not a chatty cow. She seemed preoccupied, ruminative, and unmindful of ecclesiastical disputation. Her tail swatted gnats impartially as it swatted jurors.
“Will,” Madison whispered, “if we could only get one creditable witness to swear that the calf is her calf—”
“Bully!” Avery's gesture betrayed annoyance. “But we can't and that ends it.”
Artful 'Nias made it a rule never to loaf around courts, or constable shops, or other unholy places where he might get tangled up like a fly on sticky paper. Yet he had been present throughout this trial—not obtrusively and aggressively present, but 'Nias was there. And while he failed to comprehend high points of law, 'Nias got down to the gizzard of their contention, and grasped what his lawyer friend was driving at.
While a dairyman-juror inspected brands on the cow, Madison caught one momentary glimpse of the child's eager face, peering from behind a fat woman at the cow who must swear for herself. Her time had come, for 'Nias extricated his wagon from the mob, clattered down the brick steps, and went running northward along Cherry Street. He knew exactly where he was going—to Brutus Elmore's cow-lot And 'Nias got what after; he usually did, unless interfered with by act of God or the Public Enemy. So 'Nias got a slatty-ribbed yearling that needed curry-combs and food. It was not the kind of bull calf that made protest, but a moth-eaten misanthrope who accepted the plow-line around his neck as one of the ills that prospective beef is heir to.
“Come 'long, calf!” 'Nias yanked him out
Nobody noticed a tiny black boy, a little white wagon and a red bull calf, as the variegated trio arrived to play their part in court. Every idler had crowded upstairs to hear the speaking. and not a single eye remained to see the midget, leaving his wagon beside the walk, coaxing and pulling and shoving his bull calf up the steps. There the boy halted and listened to a thunderous voice from the courtroom denouncing Uncle Brutus.
“Huh!” 'Nias grunted. “Hope dis calf aint come too late.”
Deftly he knotted his plow-line around the tree at which that other bone of contention stood hitched, and tarried awhile to mark results. Nothing happened. If this were truly his mother, the calf endured her presence with restrained enthusiasm. And the cow never glanced around from a complacent rumination. It seemed almost like a human family.
“Old cow, can't you do nothin'?” 'Nias grumbled, then shouldered against the calf and shoved. 'Nias had only two legs to shove with, while the calf had four to himself; but 'Nias also had persistence, and the yearling submitted, sidling nearer to the cow.
“Now, den, cow!” 'Nias mopped the sweat from his face. “Can't you do nothin'—yit?”
PRESENTLY his crafty eyes saw that the cow was taking notice, taking the very kind of notice that 'Nias hoped for. So the boy hid his wagon in the sheriff's office and sped barefoot up the stairs, where the massive building shook under a bombardment of words. Uncle Brutus was catching it—hot.
Nothing but an eel could have wriggled through the sardine-packing of negroes that jammed the courtroom. Babcock satellites were so elated by the lambasting of Parson Brutus that they never noticed a small boy who squeezed among them, edging nearer and nearer to the front. And grim-faced friends of Brutus wasted no breath upon a squirming child. Like a rabbit-hunting dog in high weeds, 'Nias couldn't see Lawyer Madison, who must be somewhere nigh the middle of that fuss. So he crawled and crept on in that general direction, until he butted against an iron rail. By following this rail to the right, he figured that he must ultimately reach a gate behind the jury-box—and reached it.
To that exclusive inclosure mighty few white folks were admitted, and no negroes at all. 'Nias had never been punctilious about entering gates or windows where he was unwelcome; so he opened this gate a trifle and wormed his slender body through. The prosecuting attorney had now reached his peroration; he was putting a capstone on the climax of his philippic, with folks listening so intently that none glanced down to see a vanishing black shadow that writhed along the floor and disappeared beneath the table.
Lawyer Madison sat beside that table, trying to smile. In another moment he must rise and demolish the State's arraignment—how, he didn't know. What could he say? How was it possible to break down or explain away the logical facts that fitted stripes upon his client? Something had to be done. While Madison fumbled in his mind to frame the opening sentences of an argument, he felt a jerk at his breeches-leg, and kicked out. But 'Nias tugged again and a faint voice whispered: “Mr. Lawyer? Mr. Lawyer?”
Counsel for defendant glanced between his knees, to see a pinched black face and two big white eyes.
“Mr. Lawyer!” 'Nias spoke low, as Madison bent down to hear. “Look out o dat winder. Yo' calf done got to his ma.”
IN a shiftiness of despair, when men grasp at any straw, Madison shoved his way to a window and looked down upon the yard. There he saw the calf around whose parentage, like that of a millionaire baby, so much acrimony had centered—saw a measly bull yearling, saw a tousled hide full of cockleburs and misery, saw a wretched and repudiated offspring—but look! Look! He didn't credit the miracle. He looked again, half listening and considering, as the State's attorney closed with a broadside that swept the field.
When the prosecuting attorney sat down, a low applause uprose from the Babcock benches.
“Silence in court!” the sheriff ordered, and Professor Babcock himself settled back with a supercilious smile as Judge Brien inquired:
“Has the defense anything to offer?”
“We have, Your Honor,' Madison answered from his window. “But first I'd like for the jury to glance again at our cow.”
Immediately behind the jury-box two windows opened between Corinthian columns, and gave an unobstructed view. Jurymen on the rear row need scarcely leave their seats; but every man got up, because they'd already decided against Madison, and wanted to give him a fair chance
“What about the cow, Mr. Madison?” the foreman asked.
“See for yourselves, gentlemen!” Defendant's counsel waved his hand.
Swarming negroes beyond the rail smelled a sensation—and fought for position to see. One ponderous and perspiring lady who couldn't scrouge nigh a window called to her luckier friend:
“What is it, Sis Porter? What you see?”
“Look! People!” Sis Porter's voice shrilled out. “Dat cow's lickin' her calf. Jes look how she's lovin' her chil'.”
The thing was not done in a corner. Jurors observed it—bystanders, sheriff, State's attorney; even his spectacled Honor bore solemn witness to the prodigy: the cow of much-disputed ownership was licking the calf which admittedly belonged to Parson Brutus. She fondled him, neck and hip and thigh; she licked his matted hair into furrows and turn-rows, then caressed it smooth again. The cow had spoken for herself, and nobody else said a word until Madison suggested quietly:
“Now, if Your Honor please, I am quite ready to present our case.”
And when the jury had settled themselves, he began:
“Gentlemen, this controversy has been decided by the mute testimony of a mother. May God forgive our ignorance in sneering at these creatures, when dumb brutes speak with tongues more convincing than the babble of men. Human witnesses fall into honest error, but every caress of that shaggy mother proclaims eternal verity—yea, even in a court of justice. When a mother meets on high the babe she's lost in infancy, does she not recognize it amid a multitude of angels? Among thousands of mutilated dead in France, did not the maternal instinct go straight unto her own? Could you not see how this poor creature loves her babe? Gentlemen, she wouldn't swap that runty yearling for an international prize-winner. Where ever yet was found a mother who'd trade her booby for another—”
AS Madison talked on, Judge Brien evidently regarded the case as settled, for he had turned to other matters. He was now bending down from his bench, listening to a captain of police. Captain Brinsley spoke earnestly, and indicated a second officer stationed at the door.
“Wait, Captain,” His Honor said, “until the jury retires.” Then Brinsley marched back and took position beside his colleague.
The State's attorney realized when he was licked, more thoroughly licked than the calf, and made only a perfunctory argument at the close.
The juryroom had shut behind the retiring twelve, and the unctuous Babcock didn't look happy, although conversing with vivacious Miss Theeny, who wore the straightest hair in Sheba Church. The apprehensive Professor glanced around when Judge Brien nodded a “go ahead” signal to the police. Young Sheba and the old guard craned their wondering necks when both officers strode to the smooth talker from St. Louis and snapped on the handcuffs.
“Don't move, Babcock,” the Captain warned him. “You are wanted in St. Louis, Chicago and Indianapolis; but it'll be a long time before the State of Mississippi lets them have you.”
The catastrophe flattened Babcock's Suffragettes so unexpectedly that they sat gasping while their chief was hustled off to jail. Then the facts leaked out: three boy burglars had been caught and confessed that Babcock was head of the gang. A search of the Professor's quarters had disclosed an astonishing amount of plunder.
“Huh!” 'Nias peered like a rat from beneath his table, and grunted. “Huh! White folks needn't think dey so smart. I knowed dat a mont' ago.”
Lawyers and audience alike had forgot the sidetracked Parson Brutus, until a smiling jury filed in with their verdict of “Not guilty,” and friends crowded up to congratulate him.
Draymen and washerwomen kept Henry Madison busy shaking hands; then he felt the same tugging at his breeches. This time he knew who it was and listened to 'Nias.
“Mr. Lawyer, is Uncle Brutus come clear?”
“Yes—acquitted.”
“Kin he go now?”
“Certainly. He's a free man.”
“Den listen: Tell dat fool nigger, he aint got no time for skylarkin'. He better git home in a rush, an' wash dat calf befo' somebody find out.”
“Wash his calf? Find out what?”
“Find out a heap! Ev'y night dis week I been soakin' dat calf wid brine, makin' him salty, so de cow would git used to lickin' him. She aint his ma.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1946, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 77 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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