The very poor, Johnny soon learned, were treated with consideration. Their poverty was not forgotten.
“And yet,” he said to Drew one day, “I can’t help but feel that there would be less stealing if some of these first offenders scrubbed a few floors in the workhouse.”
“There are many things to be considered,” was Drew’s reply.
And then one day, as he stood in that State Street court room, all eyes and ears for what was taking place, Johnny made a great discovery. He found a man.
This man was not brought to court. He came of his own accord, to plead the cause of another.
He was not quite sober, this man; indeed there are those who would have said he was drunk. And yet he spoke with precision.
Though there was about him an indescribable air of youth, this man’s hair was white. His face was thin. Some of his teeth were gone. His clothes were well-worn, yet they showed immaculate care. His linen was clean. “Shabby gentility” partly described him; but not quite.
“Judge,” he said, tilting first on heels, then on his toes, “Judge, your Honor, you have a man in jail here. He was fined twenty-five dollars for being drunk.” He paused for breath. “Judge, your Honor, he can’t pay that fine. He isn’t a bad man, Judge. He drinks too much sometimes, Judge. Let him go, can’t you, Judge?” The man’s voice took on a pleading note.
“What’s this man’s name?” The judge studied the stranger’s face.
“Judge, your Honor, his name is Robert MacCain. He isn’t a bad man, Judge. Let him go, will you, Judge?”