The Bondboy Page 18

  Mrs. Newbolt was painfully shocked by the sight of the irons on Joe’s wrists. She groaned as if they clamped the flesh of her own.

  “Oh, they didn’t need to do that,” she moaned.

  Joe doubtless heard her, for he lifted his face and ran his eyes through the crowd which had gathered. When he found her he smiled. That was the first look Colonel Price ever had taken into the lad’s face.

  “No,” said he, answering her anguished outbreak with a fervency that came from his heart, “there was no need of that at all.”

  They followed the sheriff and his charge into the court-room, where Mrs. Newbolt introduced Colonel Price to her son. While Joe and his mother sat in whispered conversation at the attorney’s table, the colonel studied the youth’s countenance.

  He had expected to meet a weak-faced, bony-necked, shock-headed type of gangling youngster such as ranged the Kentucky hills in his own boyhood. At best he had hoped for nothing more than a slow-headed, tobacco-chewing rascal with dodging, animal eyes. The colonel’s pleasure, then, both as an artist and an honest man, was great on beholding this unusual face, strong and clear, as inflexible in its molded lines of high purpose and valiant deeds as a carving in Flemish oak.

  Here was the Peter Newbolt of long ago, remodeled in a stronger cast, with more nobility in his brow, more promise in his long, bony jaw. Here was no boy at all, but a man, full-founded and rugged, and as honest as daylight, the colonel knew.

  Colonel Price was prepared to believe whatever that young fellow might say, and to maintain it before the world. He was at once troubled to see Hammer mixed up in the case, for he detested Hammer as a plebeian smelling of grease, who had shouldered his unwelcome person into a company of his betters, which he could neither dignify nor grace.

  The proceedings in court were brief. Joe stood, upon the reading of the long, rambling information by the prosecuting attorney, and entered a calm and dignified plea of not guilty. He was held without bond for trial two weeks from that day.

  In the sheriff’s office Mrs. Newbolt and the colonel sat with Joe, his wrists free from the humiliating irons, and talked the situation over. Hammer was waiting on the outside. Colonel Price having waved him away, not considering for a moment the lowering of himself to include Hammer in the conference.

  The colonel found that he could not fall into an easy, advisory attitude with Joe. He could not even suggest what he had so strongly recommended to Mrs. Newbolt before meeting her son–that he make a clean breast of all that took place between himself and Isom Chase before the tragedy. Colonel Price felt that he would be taking an offensive and unwarranted liberty in offering any advice at all on that head. Whatever his reasons for concealment and silence were, the colonel told himself, the young man would be found in the end justified; or if there was a revelation to be made, then he would make it at the proper time without being pressed. Of that the colonel felt sure. A gentleman could be trusted.

  But there was another matter upon which the colonel had no scruples of silence, and that was the subject of the attorney upon whom Joe had settled to conduct his affairs.

  “That man Hammer is not, to say the least, the very best lawyer in Shelbyville,” said he.

  “No, I don’t suppose he is,” allowed Joe.

  “Now, I believe in you, Joe, as strong as any man can believe in another––”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Joe, lifting his solemn eyes to the colonel’s face. The colonel nodded his acknowledgment.

  “But, no matter how innocent you are, you’ve got to stand trial on this outrageous charge, and the county attorney he’s a hard and unsparing man. You’ll need brains on your side as well as innocence, for innocence alone seldom gets a man off. And I’m sorry to tell you, son, that Jeff Hammer hasn’t got the brains you’ll need in your lawyer. He never did have ’em, and he never will have ’em–never in this mortal world!”

  “I thought he seemed kind of sharp,” said Joe, coloring a little at the colonel’s implied charge that he had been taken in.

  “He is sharp,” admitted the colonel, “but that’s all there is to him. He can wiggle and squirm like a snake; but he’s got no dignity, and no learnin’, and what he don’t know about law would make a book bigger than the biggest dictionary you ever saw.”

  “Land’s sake!” said Mrs. Newbolt, lifting up her hands despairingly.

  “Oh, I guess he’ll do, Colonel Price,” said Joe.

  “My advice would be to turn him out and put somebody else in his place, one of the old, respectable heads of the profession here, like Judge Burns.”

  “I wouldn’t like to do that, colonel,” said Joe.

  “Well, we’ll see how he behaves,” the colonel yielded, seeing that Joe felt in honor bound to Hammer, now that he had engaged him. “We can put somebody else in if he goes to cuttin’ up too many didoes and capers.”

  Joe agreed that they could, and gave his mother a great deal of comfort and assurance by his cheerful way of facing what lay ahead of him. He told her not to worry on his account, and not to come too often and wear herself out in the long walk.

  “Look after the chickens and things, Mother,” said he, “and I’ll be out of here in two weeks to help you along. There’s ten dollars coming to you from Isom’s; you collect that and buy yourself some things.”

  He told her of the order that he had given Hammer for the retaining fee, and asked her to take it up.

  “I’ll make it up to you, Mother, when I get this thing settled and can go to work again,” said he.

  Tears came into her eyes, but no trace of emotion was to be marked by any change in her immobile face.

  “Lord bless you, son, it all belongs to you!” she said.

  “Do you care about reading?” the colonel inquired, scarcely supposing that he did, considering the chances which had been his for development in that way.

  Mrs. Newbolt answered for Joe, who was slow and deliberative of speech, and always stopped to weigh his answer to a question, no matter how obvious the reply must be.

  “Oh, Colonel Price, if you could see him!” said she proudly. “Before he was ten years old he’d read the Cottage Encyclopedy and the Imitation and the Bible–from back to back!”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re of a studious mind,” said the colonel.

  As often as Joe had heard his mother boast of his achievements with those three notable books, he had not yet grown hardened to it. It always gave him a feeling of foolishness, and drowned him in blushes. Now it required some time for him to disentangle himself, but presently he looked at the colonel with a queer smile, as he said:

  “Mother always tells that on me.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” comforted the colonel, marking his confusion.

  “And all the books he’s borrowed since then!” said she, conveying a sense of magnitude by the stress of her expression. “He strained his eyes so when he was seventeen readin’ Shuckspur’s writings that the teacher let him have I thought he’d have to put on specs.”

  “My daughter and I have a considerable number of books,” said the colonel, beginning to feel about for a bit more elegance in his method of expression, as a thing due from one man of culture to another, “and if you will express your desires I’m sure we shall be glad to supply you if the scope of our library permits.”

  Joe thanked him for the offer, that strange little smile coming over his face again.

  “It wouldn’t take much of a library, Colonel Price, to have a great many books in it that I’ve never read,” said he. “I haven’t been easy enough in my mind since this thing came up to think about reading–I’ve got a book in my pocket that I’d forgotten all about until you mentioned books.” He lifted the skirt of his short coat, his pocket bulging from the volume wedged into it. “I’ll have a job getting it out, too,” said he.

  “It don’t seem to be a very heavy volume,” smiled the colonel. “What work is it?”

  “It’s the Book,” said Joe.


  Colonel Price laid his hand on the lad’s shoulder and looked him straight in the face.

  “Then you’ve got by you the sum and substance of all knowledge, and the beginning and the end of all philosophy,” said he. “With that work in your hand you need no other, for it’s the father of all books.”

  “I’ve thought that way about it myself sometimes,” said Joe, as easy and confident in his manner with the colonel, who represented a world to which he was a stranger from actual contact, as a good swimmer in water beyond his depth.

  “But if you happen to be coming over this way in a day or two you might stop in if it wouldn’t trouble you, and I could name over to you a few books that I’ve been wanting to read for a long time.”

  “I intend to lighten your brief period of confinement as much as it is in my power to do,” declared the colonel, “and I can speak for my daughter when I say that she will share my anxiety to make you as comfortable as human hands can make you in this place, Joe. We’ll come over and cheer you every little while.”

  Mrs. Newbolt had sat by, like one who had been left behind at a way-station by an express-train, while the colonel and Joe had talked. They had gone beyond her limited powers; there was nothing for her to do but wait for them to come back. Now the colonel had reached her point of contact again.

  “You’ll be rewarded for your kindness to the widow’s son,” said she, nodding her head earnestly, tears shining in her eyes.

  When he was leaving, Colonel Price felt that he must make one more effort to induce Joe to discharge Hammer and put his case into the hands of a more competent man. Joe was firm in his determination to give Hammer a chance. He was a little sensitive on the matter under the rind, the colonel could see.

  “If I was to hire the best lawyer I could find, Colonel Price, people would say then that I was guilty, sure enough,” said Joe. “They’d say I was depending more on the lawyer than myself to come clear. Well, colonel, you know that isn’t the case.”

  That seemed to settle it, at least for the present. The colonel summoned the sheriff, who took Joe to his cell. As the colonel and Mrs. Newbolt passed out, Attorney Hammer appeared, presenting his order for the money.

  Mrs. Newbolt carried her savings with her. When she had paid Hammer she had sixty cents left in her calloused palm.

  “That’s egg money,” said she, tying it in the corner of her handkerchief. “Oh, colonel, I forgot to ask the sheriff, but do you reckon they’ll give my Joe enough to eat?”

  “I’ll see to that,” said Hammer officiously.

  Hammer was a large, soft man in an alpaca-coat and white shirt without a collar. His hair was very black and exceedingly greasy, and brushed down upon his skull until it glittered, catching every ray of light in his vicinity like a bucket of oil. He walked in long strides, with a sliding motion of the feet, and carried his hands with the palms turned outward, as if ready instantly to close upon any case, fee, or emolument which came in passing contact with him, even though it might be on its way to somebody else.

  Mrs. Newbolt was not unfavorably impressed with him, for he seemed very officious and altogether domineering in the presence of the sheriff, but her opinion may have been influenced perhaps by Joe’s determination to have him whether or no. She thanked him for his promise of good offices in Joe’s behalf, and he took her arm and impeded her greatly in her progress down the steps.

  After Mrs. Newbolt had taken some refreshment in the colonel’s house, she prepared to return home.

  “If I had a hoss, madam,” said the colonel, “I’d hitch up and carry you home. But I don’t own a hoss, and I haven’t owned one for nine years, since the city grew up so around me I had to sell off my land to keep the taxes from eatin’ me up. If I did own a hoss now,” he laughed, “I’d have no place to keep him except under the bed, like they do the houn’-dogs back in Kentucky.”

  She made light of the walk, for Joe’s bright and sanguine carriage had lightened her sorrow. She had hope to walk home with, and no wayfarer ever traveled in more pleasant company.

  The colonel and his daughter pressed her to make their home her resting-place when in town, even inviting her to take up her abode there until the trial. This generous hospitality she could not accept on account of the “critters” at home which needed her daily care, and the eggs which had to be gathered and saved and sold, all against the happy day when her boy Joe would walk out free and clear from the door of the county jail.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XII

  THE SUNBEAM ON THE WALL

  The sheriff was a mild-mannered man, whose head was shaped like the end of a watermelon. His hair was close-cut and very thin at the top, due to the fact that all the nourishing substances both inside and outside his head, or any way appertaining thereto, went into the maintenance of the sheriff’s mustache, which was at least twice as large as Bill Frost’s.

  This, of course, was as it should have been, for even the poorest kind of a sheriff is more than twice as important as the very best sort of constable. In those days it was the custom for sheriffs in that part of the country to train up these prodigious mustaches, perhaps in the belief that such adornments lent them the appearance of competence and valor, of which endowments nature had given them no other testimonial. In any event it is known that many a two-inch sheriff took his stand behind an eight-inch mustache, and walked boldly in the honor of his constituents.

  The sheriff of Shelbyville was a type of this class, both in mental depth and facial adornment. He was exceedingly jealous of his power, and it was his belief that too many liberties permitted a prisoner, and too many favors shown, acted in contravention of the law’s intent as interpreted by the prosecuting attorney; namely, that a person under the cloud of accusation should be treated as guilty until able to prove himself innocent. Therefore the sheriff would not allow Joe Newbolt to leave his cell to meet visitors after his arraignment.

  The meeting between the prisoner and his mother in the office of the jail was to be the last of that sort; all who came in future must see him at the door of his cell. That was the rule laid down to Joe when he parted from his mother and Colonel Price that day.

  As a cell in a prison-house, perhaps Joe’s place of confinement was fairly comfortable. It was situated in the basement of the old court-house, where there was at least light enough to contemplate one’s misery by, and sufficient air to set one longing for the fields. There was but one other prisoner, a horse-thief, waiting for trial.

  This loquacious fellow, who was lodged directly across the corridor, took great pains to let Joe see the admiration and esteem in which he held him on account of the distinguished charge under which he was confined. He annoyed Joe to such extent that he asked the sheriff that evening to shift them about if possible.

  “Well, I’ll move him if you say so, but I left him there because I thought he’d be company for you,” said the sheriff. “I don’t mind talkin’ in this jail when there’s no more than two in it.”

  “I don’t want to talk,” said Joe.

  So the horse-thief was removed to the farther end of the corridor, where he kept up a knocking on the bars of his cell during the early hours of the night, and then turned off his diversion by imitating the sound of a saw on steel, which he could do with his tongue against his teeth with such realism as to bring the sheriff down in his nightshirt, with a lantern in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

  Joe’s second night in jail passed very much like the first, when they had brought him there all bewildered and dazed. There was a grated window in the wall above his reach, through which he could see the branches of an elm-tree, blowing bare of leaves; beyond that a bit of sky. Joe sat on the edge of his cot that second night a long time after the stars came out, gazing up at the bar-broken bit of sky, reviewing the events leading up to his situation.

  There was no resentment in him against the jury of his neighbors whose finding had sent him to jail under the cloud of that terrible accusation; he harbored
no ill-feeling for the busy, prying little coroner, who had questioned him so impertinently. There was one person alone, in the whole world of men, to blame, and that was Curtis Morgan. He could not have been far away on the day of the inquest; news of the tragic outcome of Ollie’s attempt to join him must have traveled to his ears.

  Yet he had not come forward to take the load of suspicion from Joe’s shoulders by confessing the treacherous thing that he had plotted. He need not have revealed the complete story of his trespass upon the honor of Isom Chase, thought Joe; he could have saved Ollie’s name before the neighbors; and yet relieved Joe of all suspicion. Now that Isom was dead, he could have married her. But Morgan had not come. He was a coward as well as a rascal. It was more than likely that, in fear of being found out, he had fled away.

  And suppose that he never came back; suppose that Ollie should not elect to stand forth and explain the hidden part of that night’s tragedy? She could not be expected, within reason, to do this. Even the thought that she might weaken and do so was abhorrent to Joe. It was not a woman’s part to make a sacrifice like that; the world did not expect it of her. It rested with Morgan, the traitor to hospitality; Morgan, the ingratiating scoundrel, to come forward and set him free. Morgan alone could act honorably in that clouded case; but if he should elect to remain hidden and silent, who would be left to answer but Joe Newbolt?

  And should he reveal the thing that would bring him liberty? Was freedom more precious than his honor, and the honor of a poor, shrinking, deluded woman?

  No. He was bound by a gentleman’s obligation; self-assumed, self-appointed. He could not tell.

  But what a terrible situation, what an awful outlook for him in such event! They hung men for murder on the jail-yard gallows, with a knot of rope behind the left ear and a black cap over the face. And such a death left a stain upon the name that nothing would purify. It was an attainder upon generations unborn.