Her son is an alderman; her nephew is a bailiff; two or three
others of them keep saloons. They are Poles, or Bohemians, or
Jews--Heaven knows what. They do business on the premises--they stick to
their burrow. Yet we couldn't get a summons served by a constable. And
when we finally got the matter before a court--it was continued. No
defendants there--only a filthy little creature who called himself
their attorney. We were never so blackguarded in our lives. Then another
continuance; and a third. Roger, poor boy, makes no headway at all. He
knows the law; he has a good practice; he leases and collects for me--and
buys and sells. But he is getting to be almost ashamed to come here to
see me about it."
"I know," assented Bingham; "a kind of _camorra_. Get a shyster; fight
the devil with fire. What can a gentleman do in a justice's court? If the
rats are behind the wainscot, don't stick your own hand into the hole.
Hire somebody else."
"I won't!" cried the old man, stubbornly. "I want to see for myself how
things actually are. I want to learn what conditions we are living under.
I want to understand the things that are really going on about us. I want
to see what a good citizen and a tax-payer can count upon by way of
redress." He picked at his petty grievance as a child torments a sore.
Yet a sore, in justice, may mean little, or it may mean much. Any
physician will tell you that.
"Drop it," counselled Bingham again.
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