A SELF-MADE MAN
"Over there," said Judge Sabath, "is a man who has been a juror in criminal cases at least a dozen times."
His honor pointed to a short, thin man with a derby on the back of his head and a startling mustache, concealing almost half of his wizened face. The man was sitting a bit childishly on a window ledge in the hall of the Criminal Court building swinging his legs and chewing rhythmically on a plug of tobacco.
"They let him go this morning while picking a jury for a robbery case before me," said the judge. "He tried to stay on, but neither side wanted him. You might get a story out of him. I think he's broken-hearted."
* * * * *
The short, thin man with the derby, swinging his legs from the window ledge said his name was Martin.
"That's true," he said, "what the judge said. I been a juror fourteen times. I was on five murders and four big robberies and then I was on five different assorted kinds of crimes."
"How do you like being a juror, Mr. Martin?"
"Well, sir, I like it a lot. I can say that out of the fourteen times I been a juror I never lost a case."
Mr. Martin aimed at the new cuspidor—and missed.