The trial of that hobo had taken just about fifteen seconds.  The trial of the next hobo came off with equal celerity.  The bailiff said, “Vagrancy, your Honor,” and his Honor said, “Thirty days.”  Thus it went like clockwork, fifteen seconds to a hobo—­and thirty days.

They are poor dumb cattle, I thought to myself.  But wait till my turn comes; I’ll give his Honor a “spiel.”  Part way along in the performance, his Honor, moved by some whim, gave one of us an opportunity to speak.  As chance would have it, this man was not a genuine hobo.  He bore none of the ear-marks of the professional “stiff.”  Had he approached the rest of us, while waiting at a water-tank for a freight, should have unhesitatingly classified him as a “gay-cat.”  Gay-cat is the synonym for tenderfoot in Hobo Land.  This gay-cat was well along in years—­somewhere around forty-five, I should judge.  His shoulders were humped a trifle, and his face was seamed by weather-beat.

For many years, according to his story, he had driven team for some firm in (if I remember rightly) Lockport, New York.  The firm had ceased to prosper, and finally, in the hard times of 1893, had gone out of business.  He had been kept on to the last, though toward the last his work had been very irregular.  He went on and explained at length his difficulties in getting work (when so many were out of work) during the succeeding months.  In the end, deciding that he would find better opportunities for work on the Lakes, he had started for Buffalo.  Of course he was “broke,” and there he was.  That was all.

“Thirty days,” said his Honor, and called another hobo’s name.

Said hobo got up.  “Vagrancy, your Honor,” said the bailiff, and his Honor said, “Thirty days.”

And so it went, fifteen seconds and thirty days to each hobo.  The machine of justice was grinding smoothly.  Most likely, considering how early it was in the morning, his Honor had not yet had his breakfast and was in a hurry.

But my American blood was up.  Behind me were the many generations of my American ancestry.  One of the kinds of liberty those ancestors of mine had fought and died for was the right of trial by jury.  This was my heritage, stained sacred by their blood, and it devolved upon me to stand up for it.  All right, I threatened to myself; just wait till he gets to me.

He got to me.  My name, whatever it was, was called, and I stood up.  The bailiff said, “Vagrancy, your Honor,” and I began to talk.  But the judge began talking at the same time, and he said, “Thirty days.”  I started to protest, but at that moment his Honor was calling the name of the next hobo on the list.  His Honor paused long enough to say to me, “Shut up!” The bailiff forced me to sit down.  And the next moment that next hobo had received thirty days and the succeeding hobo was just in process of getting his.

When we had all been disposed of, thirty days to each stiff, his Honor, just as he was about to dismiss us, suddenly turned to the teamster from Lockport—­the one man he had allowed to talk.