'I see the judge looks mad, so I steps up and says:
''Your Honor, the aforesaid defendant, Mr. Luke Summers, sheriff of Mojada County, Texas, is as fine a man as ever threw a rope or upheld the statutes and codicils of the greatest state in the Union. But he --'
'The judge hits his table with a wooden hammer and asks who I am.
'Bud Oakley,' says I. 'Office deputy of the sheriff's office of Mojada County, Texas. Representing,' says I, 'the Law. Luke Summers,' I goes on, 'represents Order. And if Your Honor will give me about ten minutes in private talk, I'll explain the whole thing to you, and show you the equitable and legal requisition papers which I carry in my pocket.'
'The judge kind of half smiles and says he will talk with me in his private room. In there I put the whole thing up to him in such language as I had, and when we goes outside, he announces the verdict that the young man is delivered into the hands of the Texas authorities; and calls the next case.
'Skipping over much of what happened on the way back, I'll tell you how the thing wound up in Bildad.
'When we got the prisoner in the sheriff's office, I says to Luke:
''You, remember that kid of yours -- that two-year old that they stole away from you when the bust-up come?'
'Luke looks black and angry. He'd never let anybody talk to him about that business, and he never mentioned it himself.
''Toe the mark,' says I. 'Do you remember when he was toddling around on the porch and fell down on a pair of Mexican spurs and cut four little holes over his right eye? Look at the prisoner,' says I, 'look at his nose and the shape of his head and -- why, you old fool, don't you know your own son? -- I knew him,' says I, 'when he perforated Mr. Johnson at the depot.'
'Luke comes over to me shaking all over. I never saw him lose his nerve before.
''Bud,' says he. 'I've never had that boy out of my mind one day or one night since he was took away. But I never let on. But can we hold him? -- Can we make him stay? -- I'll make the best man of him that ever put his foot in a stirrup. Wait a minute,' says he, all excited and out of his mind -- 'I've got some-thing here in my desk -- I reckon it'll hold legal yet -- I've looked at it a thousand times -- ' Cus-to-dy of the child,' says Luke -- 'Cus-to-dy of the child.' We can hold him on that, can't we? Le'me see if I can find that decree.'
'Luke begins to tear his desk to pieces.
''Hold on,' says I. 'You are Order and I'm Law. You needn't look for that paper, Luke. It ain't a decree any more. It's requisition papers. It's on file in that Magistrate's office in New York. I took it along when we went, because I was office deputy and knew the law.'
''I've got him back,' says Luke. 'He's mine again. I never thought -- '
''Wait a minute,' says I. 'We've got to have law and order. You and me have got to preserve 'em both in Mojada County according to our oath and conscience. The kid shot Pedro Johnson, one of Bildad's most prominent and --'
''Oh, hell!' says Luke. 'That don't amount to anything. That fellow was half Mexican, anyhow.''
TRANSFORMATION OF MARTIN BURNEY
In behalf of Sir Walter's soothing plant let us look into the case of Martin Burney.
They were constructing the Speedway along the west bank of the Harlem River. The grub-boat of Dennis Corrigan, sub-contractor, was moored to a tree on the bank. Twenty-two men belonging to the little green island toiled there at the sinew-cracking labour. One among them, who wrought in the kitchen of the grub-boat was of the race of the Goths. Over them all stood the exorbitant Corrigan, harrying them like the captain of a galley crew. He paid them so little that most of the gang, work as they might, e arned little more than food and tobacco; many of them were in debt to him. Corrigan boarded them all in the grub-boat, and gave them good grub, for he got it back in work.
Martin Burney was furthest behind of all. He was a little man, all muscles and hands and feet, with a gray- red, stubbly beard. He was too light for the work, which would have glutted the capacity of a steam shovel.
The work was hard. Besides that, the banks of the river were humming with mosquitoes. As a child in a dark room fixes his regard on the pale light of a comforting window, these toilers watched the sun that brought around the one hour of the day that tasted less bitter. After the sundown supper they would huddle together on the river bank, and send the mosquitoes whining and eddying back from the malignant puffs of twenty-three reeking pipes. Thus socially banded against the foe, they wrenched out of the hour a few well-smoked drops from the cup of joy.
Each week Burney grew deeper in debt. Corrigan kept a small stock of goods on the boat, which he sold to the men at prices that brought him no loss. Burney was a good customer at the tobacco counter. One sack when he went to work in the morning and one when he came in at night, so much was his account swelled daily. Burney was something of a smoker. Yet it was not true that he ate his meals with a pipe in his mouth, which had been said of him. The little man was not discontented. He had plenty to eat, plenty of tobacco, and a tyrant to curse; so why should not he, an Irishman, be well satisfied?
One morning as he was starting with the others for work he stopped at the pine counter for his usual sack of tobacco.
'There's no more for ye,' said Corrigan. 'Your account's closed. Ye are a losing investment. No, not even tobaccy, my son. No more tobaccy on account. If ye want to work on and eat, do so, but the smoke of ye has all ascended. 'Tis my advice that ye hunt a new job.'
'I have no tobaccy to smoke in my pipe this day, Mr. Corrigan,' said Burney, not quite understanding that such a thing could happen to him.
'Earn it,' said Corrigan, 'and then buy it.'
Burney stayed on. He knew of no other job. At first he did not realize that tobacco had got to be his father and mother, his confessor and sweetheart, and wife and child.
For three days he managed to fill his pipe from the other men's sacks, and then they shut him off, one and all. They told him, rough but friendly, that of all things in the world tobacco must be quickest forthcoming to a
