Читать книгу Tut! Tut! Mr. Tutt - Arthur Train - Страница 7

In the good old mediæval days our Teutonic relatives had a jovial habit of strapping any particularly unruly serf beneath the belly of a wild horse and then hunting him to death with dogs. The serf in this pleasant game had very little chance, but at any rate he had a fair start, and the horse did not have a ball and chain attached to his leg. But in the coming course, in which the dogs of law would run down Paddy Mooney if they could, he was handicapped in two ways: first, he had a ball and chain on his leg in the shape of his prison record; and second, in addition to the hatred which O’Brien entertained for all defendants, and particularly for those who had served terms in prison, he was the object of the prosecutor’s special malignity because he was to be defended by Mr. Tutt, who on more than one celebrated occasion had shown the braggart up for what he was. To his ancient grudge, fed fat by years of successful opposition upon the old lawyer’s part, was now added the smart of present insult. His rage against Mooney for not being willing to plead guilty fanned his fury against Mr. Tutt, and his hatred of Mr. Tutt transformed his anger against Mooney to poisonous serpents. To be in any way foiled made him a madman.

“Come here!” he growled at Delaney as he dragged him into the corridor. “Give me the goods on this fellow! I’ll teach that sanctimonious old he-devil a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry!”

The heart of Delaney leaped within him. That was the bally boy! He would have another conviction to add to his scroll of honor, and maybe the D. A. would write the Commissioner a letter of commendation, praising his services in sending up Mooney for another bit! Anyhow, Micky Morrison wouldn’t forget it! Promotion dazzled him! He could have kissed O’Brien or licked his boots—which latter alternative most of us would have preferred.

“Listen here!” he said, fawning upon the prosecutor. “It’s a cinch. I caught this guy and another gun—Mulligan—wit’ a bag of goods. I gave ye the cannon I took off him already. Mulligan’ll turn state’s evidence for a suspended sentence. Everybody’s here! You’ll eat him alive!”

“All right! Tell Mulligan I’ll use him; and bring him up into one of the jury rooms and go over his story with him. I don’t want any slip-up now! I’m doing you a favor by trying this case myself.”

“I know you are, Mr. O’Brien! I know you are!” declared Delaney in those tones of unctuous adoration that were as parmacety to the inward bruises of the Bloodhound’s soul. “ ’Tis the next district attorney you’re going to be!”

“Then get busy! Get busy!” ordered O’Brien, stalking back toward the court room.

The reader might well be pardoned were he incredulous of what O’Brien and Delaney purposed to do. Fortunately such prosecutors are rare; but once in a generation—perhaps even more often—they arise; and against their villainy judges and lawyers are generally powerless, for their assassinations are hidden beneath the cloak of law and the pretense of public service. Little did the judge upon the bench wot of the proposed tragedy; had he done so he would have arisen and rent his official garments. But Mr. Tutt knew, and his heart turned faint within his old frock coat. O Justice, what crimes are sometimes committed in thy name!