“I never heard that before,” said he.
A chap came tiptoeing up to me and whispered, “Madam, don’t say ‘judge’ or ‘sir’ to the court. Say ‘Your Honor.’”
“Who is the court?” I whispered back.
“His honor, on the bench,” he said, looking shocked.
“Are you referring to the old chap behind the justice counter? Well, I can’t call him ‘your honor’ until I know how honorable he is. You know I took an oath to tell the truth when I took the witness stand.”
When the court session closed I was told that the judge wished to see me in his chambers. When I entered the room, the judge reached out his hand and took hold of mine, and he said, “I wish to give you proof that I am not a scab; that I didn’t scab on my father.”
He handed me documents which proved that the reports were wrong and had been circulated by his enemies.
“Judge,” I said, “I apologize. And I am glad to be tried by so human a judge who resents being called a scab. And who would not want to be one. You probably understand how we working people feel about it.”
He did not sentence me, just let me go, but he gave the men who were arrested with me sixty and ninety days in jail.