“Somewhere a la-ad hits somewan on th’ head with an axe or sinds him a bunch iv proosic acid done up to look like candy.  Maybe he does an’ maybe he don’t; but annyhow that’s what he’s lagged f’r.  Th’ polis are in a hurry to get to th’ pool-room befure th’ flag falls in th’ first race an’ they carry th’ case to th’ gran’ jury; th’ gran’ jury indicts him without a thought or a suspicion iv ax har-rd feelin’, th’ judge takes his breakfast on th’ bench to be there in time an’ charges th’ jury to be fair but not to f’rget th’ man done it, an’ th’ jury rayturns a verdict iv guilty with three cheers an’ a tiger.  Th’ pris’ner has hardly time to grab up his hat befure he ‘s hauled off to his funeral obsequies, an’ th’ onprejudiced public feels happy about it.  I don’t believe in capital punishmint, Hinnissy, but ’twill niver be abolished while th’ people injye it so much.  They ‘re jus’ squarin’ thimsilves f’r th’ rayvoltin’ details whin wurrud comes that Judge Tamarack iv Opolis has granted a stay iv proceedin’s.  Stays iv pro-ceedin’s is devices, Hinnissy, be which th’ high coorts keep in form.  ’Tis a lagal joke.  I med it up.  Says Judge Tamarack:  ’I know very little about this ease excipt what I’ve been tol’ be th’ larned counsel f’r th’ dayfinse, an’ I don’t believe that, but I agree with Lord Coke in th’ maxim that th’ more haste th’ less sleep.  Therefore to all sheriffs, greetin’:  Fen jarrin’ th’ pris’ner till ye hear fr’m us.’

“So th’ pris’ner waits an’ dhreams he ‘s a lightnin’ rod an’ th’ public waits an’ ivrybody waits.  Th’ high coort is busy in its way.  Ivry two or three years it is discovered takin’ a nap at a county seat in th’ corn belt, an’ it hands down a decision f’r th’ defindant in a case f’r damages growin’ out iv th’ Shay rebillion.  Then it dhrops off again.  Th’ judge that thried th’ case retires to a well-arned job with a railrood comp’ny, th’ jury has ceased to look f’r their pitchers in th’ pa-apers an’ th’ insurance comp’nies insure young Cyanide’s life f’r the lowest known premyum.  Occasionally a judge iv th’ coort iv appeals walkin’ in his sleep meets another judge, an’ they discuss matthers.  ’How ar-re ye gettin’ on with th’ Cyanide case, judge?’ ‘I’m makin’ fair headway, judge.  I r-read part iv th’ vardict iv th’ coroner’s jury las’ year an’ nex’ month whin th’ fishin’ is over, I expict to look into th’ indictment.  ‘Tis a puzzlin’ case.  Th’ man is not guilty.’  ’Well, good bye, judge; I’ll see ye in a year or two.  Lave me know how ye’re gettin’ on.  Pleasant dhreams!’ An’ so they part.  Th’ higher up a coort is, th’ less they see iv each other.  Their office hours are fr’m a quarther to wan leap years.  Ye take a lively lawyer that’s wurruked twinty hours a day suin’ sthrect railrood comp’nies an’ boost him onto a high coort an’ he can’t think out iv a hammock.  Th’ more exalted what Hogan calls th’ joodicyal station, th’ more it’s like a dormitory.  Th’ years rowl by an’ th’ tillygraft op’rator