Mr. Grabguy would merely suggest to his honour that although sentencing a negro to be hung may be a matter of small consequence to him, yet his position in society gives him a right to be heard with proper respect.  Aware that he does not move in that exclusively aristocratic sphere of society awarded to lawyers in general, he is no less entitled to respect, and being a man of honour, and an alderman as well, he shall always insist on that respect.

“Order, order!” demand a dozen voices.  His honour’s face flashing with indignation, he seizes the statutes, and rising to his feet, is about to throw them with unerring aim at the unhandsome head of the municipal functionary.  A commotion here ensues.  Felsh is esteemed not a bad fighting man; and rising almost simultaneously, his face like a full moon peeping through a rain cloud, attempts to pacify his colleague, Fetter.  The court is foaming with excitement; Mr. Felsh is excited, the jury are excited to take a little more drink, the constables are excited, the audience are excited to amusement; Messrs. Fetter and Felsh’s court rocks with excitement:  the only unexcited person present is the criminal, who looks calmly on, as if contemplating with horror the debased condition of those in whose hands an unjust law has placed his life.

As the uproar and confusion die away, and the court resumes its dignity, Mr. Grabguy, again asserting his position of a gentleman, says he is not ashamed to declare his conviction to be, that his honour is not in a fit state to try a “nigger” of his:  in fact, the truth must be told, he would not have him sit in judgment upon his spaniel.

At this most unwarranted declaration Fetter rises from his judicial chair, his feelings burning with rage, and bounds over the table at Grabguy, prostrating his brother Felsh, tables, benches, chairs, and everything else in his way,—­making the confusion complete.  Several gentlemen interpose between Fetter; but before he can reach Grabguy, who is no small man in physical strength—­which he has developed by fighting his way “through many a crowd” on election days-that municipal dignitary is ejected, sans ceremonie, into the street.

“Justice to me!  My honest rights, for which I laboured when he gave me no bread, would have saved him his compunction of conscience:  I wanted nothing more,” says Nicholas, raising the side of his coarse jacket, and wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Silence there!” demands an official, pointing his tipstaff, and punching him on the shoulder.

Grabguy goes to his home, considering and reconsidering his own course.  His heart repeats the admonition, “Thou art the wrong-doer, Grabguy!” It haunts his very soul; it lays bare the sources from whence the slave’s troubles flow; places the seal of aggression on the state.  It is a question with him, whether the state, through its laws, or Messrs. Fetter and Felsh, through the justice meted out at their court, play the baser part.