“No, no, Shorty; a new trial—new—new!”
“They give new trial? Yes?” Shorty was delighted.
“I don’t know,” said the P. K.
“I wait,” said Shorty, and dismissed them all.
An Italian lawyer came, engaged in a conversation lasting hours, which sounded like a battle royal between ten thousand enraged parrots; he departed in tears. An Italian priest came, prayed strenuously, and went away. The one hundred dollars remained in the bank. Shorty would not sign a paper to save his life. It’s bad luck to put your name to a paper, very bad luck, indeed.
In the course of time (a very long time) Shorty’s case reached the Court of Appeals, and the Court of Appeals decided against Shorty. This made Shorty furious. He explained that he had been convicted again; that he had not been present, an outrage; that no witness had spoken for him; that no one had “said the word.” Why didn’t they send for him, for the witnesses? Why? a thousand whys? No one was ever able to make him understand.
Again the brother came. Shorty was going to the “good heaven,” he would not need the one hundred dollars, but his “loving brother” could use it in his business; would he sign the paper?
“No! no—no!” said Shorty. Beads of rich perspiration stood out on “loving brother’s” forehead. “Loving brother” had spent much money; there was the Italian lawyer, the priest, the carfare, the paper. Loving brother’s grief was piteous to see. For the sake of the dear Dio, would Shorty sign the paper? No! no—no! Then Shorty might go to the eternal bad place. Loving brother left and came no more.
Benjamin asked Shorty why he did not give the money to his brother.
“No!” said Shorty.