“For what?”
“Why, haven’t you seen the supreme court’s decision in this morning’s paper? You won your case. Peter Shaw does not have to pay his annual five-dollar merchant tax.”
“Good!” exclaimed Allen. “No, I had not seen it.”
“Yes,” nodded Betty, with something not quite transparent in her smile, “the judge who handed down the decision sustained your contention, that as the notices of election, at which the town was incorporated thirty-eight years ago, were posted only nineteen days instead of twenty, as the law requires, the articles of incorporation were illegally adopted. Therefore, the town is non-existent. Its officers have no right to levy or collect taxes, to sue or to be sued, to receive or pay out moneys.”
“Good heavens!” Allen felt himself slowly collapsing on the table, sick in every organ described by the specialists.
“Sometimes,” smiled Betty, as she glanced out of the window toward the hardware store—“sometimes a lawyer gets his.”
THE JOKE ON PRESTON
By Lewis Allen
“Has the prisoner secured counsel?”
“No, your honour,” responded District Attorney Masters.