Harry Riddle Attorney At Law

the brief but brilliant career of a great legal mind

Humor

My name is Harry Riddle. I am a sensitive, retiring person. Even as a boy this was true. I remember numerous times when the neighborhood children would say to me, "Come on, Harry. We're going out and hold up a filling station," and I would answer, not unkindly, "No, thanks, fellows. I'm going to stay home and read."

I suppose I missed a great deal by not participating in these normal activities of childhood. Certainly I should have been better prepared for the hurly-burly of later life. But somehow I could not find it in myself to join my young colleagues in their robust games. Occasionally I would try. Once, I recall, I let myself be persuaded to accompany my friends on a purse-snatching expedition. I seized the handbag of an elderly lady, but she tripped me with her crutch and held me by the collar until the police came -- a matter of forty minutes.

On that occasion, I remember, my mother knocked me insensible. My father said nothing, but I could tell he was displeased.

My father and I are a great deal alike, he, too, being a sensitive, retiring person. He, in fact, retired in 1924, a victim of technological unemployment. Dad, as I like to call him, is a capmaker by profession. When men unaccountably stopped wearing caps after the Coolidge election, he was thrown out of work and has not worked since. He has not, however, lost hope that this current hat fad will pass.

Dad and I are, as I said, a great deal alike, but Mother (my mother) is a horse of a different color, she should excuse the expression. She is a hale, extroverted woman, given to bursts of temper. Many is the time Dad and I have fled, laughing, from the house with great, running welts on the backs of our heads.

Mother always carried a darning egg in the toe of a long black stocking, and she would hit us with it when she grew angry. A short while ago, when I was visiting her, I twitted her good-naturedly about the darning egg, and she hit me with it again. They had to take stitches.

It must not be supposed that my home was a scene of continual violence. No indeed. At night, when Mother went downtown to scrub floors, Dad and I would sit and have long, tranquil discussions. Even as a boy my thoughts were of a cosmic nature. Whither are we drifting? I would wonder. What is the world coming to? Is there hope for mankind? What can I best do to fulfill my destiny as an American and a human being? All these questions would tumble from my lips as Dad listened patiently, rocking back and forth in his chair. (The chair, incidentally, was not a rocker; its two front legs were missing.) "What's the answer?" I would demand. "What must I do?"

"You must do like I tell ya," he would reply. His speech was rough; he had had no education except in what I like to call the School of Hard Knocks. "Get rich boy," he would say, filling his corncob pipe with cigarette butts I had collected for him during the day. "Get rich, boy. Then sleep till noon and screw 'em all."

I have often thought of having a small volume of Dad's aphorisms printed. When good vellum is available again, perhaps I shall.

Far into the night Dad would speak to me, and I would listen intently, grasping, in spite of my tender years, the full import of his wise advice. When Dad told me to get rich, he meant that I should accumulate large sums of money. Boy though I was, I understood that.

We would talk and talk until Dad dozed off and toppled from his chair. I would carry him to his pallet and tuck him in. Then I would retire to my own pallet and think about getting rich until my little eyelids grew heavy and closed in sleep. Sometimes I would read a book on how to increase your income. Up Your Bracket, it was called.

And in the mornings there was school. School! Here I came into my own. Positions were reversed; I was the leader, not the laggard, among the other children. In neighborhood games like Squish (dropping safes on policemen) they were admittedly better than I, but in school it was different. I read better, drew (continued on page 8) Harry Riddle(continued from page 7) better, sang better. I knew all the answers to all the questions. I got the highest marks. All this was a great satisfaction to me, and not one whit lessened by the fact that the other children took off my trousers and threw them on top of a passing bus every day after school.

Almost as much as I am beholden to my father for guidance, I am in the debt of Miss Spinnaker, my sixth-grade teacher, whom I credit with instilling in me my great thirst for learning. Let me hasten to state that all my other teachers were also fine, upstanding women, and they taught me a good deal in their classes. But they were inclined to be abrupt with me when I dropped in at their homes in the evening to discuss the day's lessons.

Not so Miss Spinnaker. She welcomed me with great enthusiasm whenever I called. On each visit we would take up a different topic: names of state capitals, deciduous trees, game fish of North America, the decimal system, the lyric poems of Longfellow, and similar subjects. She would ask me questions, holding me on her lap and fondling me with innocent abandon as I recited. In accordance with her wishes, I fondled her too. Afterward, hot and tired, we would have tall glasses of ginger beer.

My mother broke in on us one night and hit us both with her darning egg. I never went to Miss Spinnaker's home again, although we remained the best of friends and fondled one another amicably when we met in the corridor at school.

I was graduated high in my class at grammar school, and I finished with equal distinction in high school. Then I went out to look for a job. At this time I was eighteen years old, slender, fair, and, in all modesty, not unattractive. My clothes were patched but clean, and my appearance was of a type to inspire confidence in a prospective employer. You may be sure that I soon found a responsible position: bus boy in an all-night cafeteria.

The years I worked in the cafeteria, I can honestly say, are among the most cherished in my life. Although my pay was niggardly, I was immeasurably enriched by the contacts I made.

It was at the cafeteria that I met two men who deserve places alongside my father and Miss Spinnaker as people who shaped my life. One was Walter Obispo; the other was George Overmeyer.

Obispo was a silver-haired man of sixty, an attorney who had been disbarred for some trifling offense. He used to sit in the cafeteria all night, explaining that he preferred it to the huge town house where he lived alone. I understood, for I, too, have been lonely. Who has not? Eh? Who has not?

As often as I could take time off from my various duties, which included clearing tables, washing dishes, mopping floors, emptying garbage, ejecting drunks, and adding benzoate of soda to the tainted meat which made it possible for us to sell our meals so reasonably, I would bring a fresh cup of coffee to Obispo and we would talk. I would listen breathlessly as he told me of his experiences as a lawyer -- how he had bribed jurors, suborned perjury, stolen state exhibits, and leaped on the backs of ambulances going as rapidly as sixty miles an hour. He never tired of telling his stories, nor I of listening to them.

George Overmeyer was much younger than Obispo. He was, I would say, in his late twenties -- a thin man with pinched features and intense, blazing eyes. He, too, used to spend his nights in the cafeteria, but not in conversation. He would bring in heavy tomes on sociology and economics and history and sit reading and making notes. Often he would just sit and think -- or, rather, worry. An expression of such great concern would come over his face that the heart within me would ache. One night, when he looked particularly distressed, I made bold to speak.

"Excuse me, friend," I said. "Would you care to tell me what worries you?"

"Oh, nothing much," he replied. "The world, mankind, civilization, social justice, democracy, human rights ..."

I nodded understandingly, for I, too, used to worry about these very topics until Dad had provided me with the answer. "I can help you," I said.

"Oh, peachy," said George.

"The thing to do," I said, "is to get rich. Then sleep till noon and screw 'em all."

He leaped up. "Good God, man, that's it!" he cried. He wrung my hand gratefully. "How can I ever thank you?"

"The knowledge that I have helped you is thanks enough," I said simply, and we shook hands again, silently this time, not trusting ourselves to speak.

"Get rich," he mused. "Now why couldn't I think of that?"

"Sometimes," I said, "one gets so involved in a problem that one can't see the trees for the forest."

"What a striking phrase!" he exclaimed. "Mind if I jot it down?"

I waved my hand graciously and he made the entry in his notebook.

"I take it that you are rich," he said. "Just working here for a lark."

"Well, no," I confessed, "but it's only a matter of time."

"Perhaps you'll have me over for tea sometime when you get your mansion."

"Happy to," I said cordially. "I'm not the kind of person who's going to forget poor wretches like you just because I'm rich."

"Commendable," he murmured.

"No, sir," I said. "I'm going to do good works when I get rich. I've already got a few charities in mind -- free Muzak for nursing mothers, relief tubes for indigent aviators, and lots of other greathearted plans."

"This makes me very happy," said George. "I'm so glad to hear that money will leave you as sweet and imbecilic as you are today. Money, you know, sometimes has a tendency to corrupt."

"It does?" I said with some alarm. This, indeed, was an aspect that had not occurred to me. I wanted to be rich, yes, but not if it meant being corrupted. There is no price high enough, I always say, to pay for a man's integrity.

"Yes, there have been scattered cases of people being corrupted by money," he said. "But don't worry about it."

But I did worry about it. In fact, I could not get it out of my mind. Was it, I kept thinking, worth the risk? Was getting rich worth taking the chance of becoming corrupted, of losing my sterling honesty, my profound humaneness, the saintliness that made me such a rare man among men? The question stayed with me waking and sleeping.

One night while I was grinding hamburger in the kitchen of the cafeteria and thinking about my problem, I inadvertently stuck my hand into the grinder. I must have cried out, because in an instant the kitchen was filled with people, among them the proprietor who gave me a waiver of damages to sign with my good hand. At this moment Obispo leaped forward with a full-throated cry, wrenched the waiver from me, and announced that he was representing me. I had time to give him a grateful smile before I fainted.

A few days later Obispo came to the hospital and gave me one thousand dollars, which he said was my share of the five-thousand-dollar settlement he had received for my accident. For a moment I could not speak. One thousand dollars and all mine! It was overwhelming. I blinked back my tears and smiled wanly at my benefactor.

Then suddenly an idea sprang full-blown into my brain. Here was the answer to my problem. All at once I knew how to get rich and yet stay uncorrupted: I would become a lawyer.

It was so obvious, Lawyers helped people. For helping people they got large sums of money. Consider Obispo: he had done me an immense kindness in getting a thousand dollars for me. At the same time he had earned four thousand dollars for himself. So, in a single operation, he had performed an act both lucrative and eleemosynary.

And I, as a lawyer, would do the same. Become rich by earning large fees. Remain uncorrupted by doing good deeds for people. And do both at the same time, that was the beauty part.

I hastened to tell Obispo of my decision to become a lawyer. I said I would use my thousand dollars to go to college and read the law. But he had a much better idea. There was no need for me to go off to college, study six years, and then perhaps fail to pass the bar. I could give him the thousand dollars and read the law in his office. It would take only a few months, and he would guarantee that I passed the bar. My throat was too filled with tears to speak; I could only nod in grateful agreement.

So upon my discharge from the hospital I started to report every day to Obispo's office in the back of the High Life Billiard Parlor to read his law library. This did not take very long, since his library consisted of only one book -- City Ordinances of Winnipeg. Within six months I became possibly the world's foremost authority on the municipal statutes of Winnipeg and also a middling expert at Kelly pool, which I played with my tutor during his informal lectures. Obispo believed strongly that relaxation was the key to learning. He considered playing pool during lectures an excellent means of relieving tension. Nor were his lectures crammed with obstruse and difficult legal data. Usually, in fact, they were not about the law at all, but about women. He was quite inventive in the lovemaking line, and in later years I spent many pleasurable hours approximating those of the conformations he had described to me that were not beyond my agility.

Beguiling though my days were with Obispo, I sometimes was troubled about the casual way my education was proceeding. "Do you really think I'll be ready for the bar examination?" I asked him frequently, and he always replied, "Don't worry about a thing."

He was right. When the time came to take my bar examination, I passed with flying colors -- that is to say, Mr. Weatherwax did. (I should explain that Mr. Weatherwax was the man Obispo hired to take my bar examination for me.)

I could hardly wait to rush home and show Mother and Dad my law diploma. "Mother! Dad!" I cried as I burst into our squalid quarters. "Come see my diploma. I'm a lawyer. No more working in a cafeteria for me!"

"Don't give me that crap," said Mother. "You quit that job and I'll knock you through the wall."

Dad sprang to my defense. "You leave him be," he said. "Harry's gonna be a big man someday, like I'da been if I had his education."

"The only way you'd be a big man," said Mother, "is if somebody blew you up."

"Darning eggs and stones will break my bones," said Dad, "but names will never hurt me."

This was a brave little lie on Dad's part, for he was the most sensitive of men, and Mother's thoughtless allusions to his lack of initiative injured him far more than her frequent blows. Mother did not really mean to be unkind. Underneath her bluster I knew there was a genuine affection for Dad. I must admit, though, that she concealed it perfectly.

The argument raged on. Mother flailed me with her darning egg until my head looked like a Hubbard squash, but I was adamant. The following week I put a down payment on some office furniture, rented an abandoned streetcar, and hung out my shingle. I got the shingle free from a friend of mine who worked at a roofing company, and I lettered it myself.

The shingle proclaimed:

It would be idle to pretend that I was a successful lawyer from the start. The first case I pleaded, in fact, turned out very badly. Although I conducted the defense with much zeal, my client was given five years at hard labor. This sentence reflects little credit on me when you consider that he had only been charged with overtime parking.

Honesty compels me to admit that I fared no better in my second case. I was representing a man whose unscrupulous relatives wished him adjudged insane so they could get control of his fortune. After the third day of the hearing the judge ruled against my client, remarking dryly that only a lunatic would have retained me as counsel.

For a long time after that I had no cases. I tried for a while to earn my living as an income-tax consultant, but only one client came to me, and he took his business elsewhere when he learned that I had computed his taxes to be 30 per cent more than his gross income.

It is always darkest before the dawn, I like to say. Certainly circumstances could have been no more unpromising than they were at the moment I received the assignment that led to my present position. I had been evicted from my streetcar for nonpayment of rent. My furniture had been repossessed. Also my suit. I had a concussion from my mother's darning egg. In the midst of all this blackness, like a ray of light, a message arrived: Judge Ralph Schram wanted to see me.

I was in his chambers at the appointed hour, my hair neatly brushed, my clothes patched but clean, a deferential smile on my lips.

"Wipe that stupid smirk off your face," said the judge in greeting.

I was not deceived by his gruffness. I felt sure that he was basically a kindly man and that the story about his spending every Sunday at the state prison gloating over the inmates he had committed was apocryphal.

"Listen carefully," he continued, "because I haven't got much time. It's Saturday afternoon and I've got to catch a train up to the state prison so I can spend Sunday gloating over the inmates I have committed."

"Yes, your honor," I said briskly.

"I have to appoint a public defender in a trial that is coming up next Monday. The defendant is so palpably guilty that no lawyer with an ounce of brains will touch the case. So I called you."

"I hope you will find me worthy of your confidence," I said simply.

"His name is Sam Hiff and he's in the county jail," said the judge and threw me out of the room, indicating that the interview was over.

(continued on page 10)Harry Riddle(continued from page 9)

I went at once to see Sam Hiff, whom I found to be an attractive cross-eyed man with eczema. "How do you do?" I said. "I'm Harry Riddle and I've been appointed by the court to represent you."

"They couldn't get nobody else, huh?" asked Hiff.

I shook my head.

"You look pretty stupid, hey."

I made a moue.

"Well," he shrugged, "I guess I'm stuck with you, hey."

"That's the spirit, Mr. Hiff," I said, clapping his fat back. "Now let's get down to business. If I'm to be your attorney, I will require you to be absolutely truthful with me. First of all, Mr. Hiff, are you innocent?"

"Yeh," he replied.

I seized his hand thankfully. "That's what I wanted to hear, Mr. Hiff. You may rest assured that I will leave no stone unturned in my efforts to disprove this monstrous accusation that has been brought against you. Trust me, Mr. Hiff, trust me."

Giving his hand a final squeeze, I left the cell. When I got home later, it occurred to me that I should have asked him what he was accused of. But I decided not to go back and ask him, thinking such a move might impair his confidence in me.

The case of the State vs. Sam Hiff opened at nine o'clock Monday morning under the able direction of Judge Ralph Schram, who threatened to disbar both Swanson, the district attorney, and me if we did not wind up the trial in time for him to attend an execution early that afternoon. In the interests of speed, Swanson and I picked the jury by the simple process of accepting the first twelve veniremen who came before us, notwithstanding the fact that four of them were deaf-mutes. By nine-twenty the jury was sworn, and Swanson rose to deliver the opening statement of the prosecution.

At this moment I was still not aware of the charge against Sam Hiff, but I was not disturbed. I was sure that I would learn the charge from Swanson's opening address and that I could prepare an instant rebuttal. In addition to being a sensitive, retiring person, I am also a quick thinker.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," said Swanson with a nervous glance at Judge Schram, who sat frowning over a stop watch, "I will not waste your time with any long oration. The state intends to bring this trial swiftly to its inevitable conclusion ..."

"Come on, come on," snapped Judge Schram.

"We will prove," continued Swanson, "that the defendant Hiff has large deposits in several banks, that he has various sources of income, that he lives in a luxurious apartment filled with costly furniture. At the conclusion of the State's case, you will have no choice except to find the defendant guilty as charged. Thank you." He sat down.

I could only conclude from Swanson's remarks that Hiff was on trial for being a wealthy man. I did not know when the possession of large sums of money had been made a crime, for I had not kept up with recent legislation, but I was filled with a sense of outrage. This kind of thing struck at the very fundament of our republic. This was no longer merely the case of the State vs. Sam Hiff; this was Americanism vs. un-Americanism, totalitarianism vs. democracy. I leaped to my feet and strode across the court to the jury.

"I trust counsel for the defense will not dawdle for forty-three seconds as did the prosecution," said Judge Schram.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," I said rapidly, "what I have to say is brief. Sam Hiff is a rich man. I say this proudly. Sam Hiff is a rich man ..."

There was a puzzled murmur among the spectators, and Judge Schram jailed them all for contempt.

"If you return a verdict of guilty against the wealthy defendant Hiff," I continued, "you will be returning a verdict of guilty against George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Carnegie, Bernard Baruch, and other Americans who have made this country great. Thank you."

I sat down and noted with satisfaction the effects of my speech. The jurors sat stupefied, looking at each other askance. At the prosecution table Swanson and his assistants were in animated conversation. The reporters covering the trial were rushing to telephones. Even Judge Schram was impressed; he sat shaking his head slowly.

"Well," I said to Hiff with permissable pride, "what did you think of that?"

"I didn't know that Washington and Carnegie and Baruch and all them guys were relief chiselers, hey," he said.

"What?" I said.

"I didn't know they took relief checks from the county welfare board like I done."

"Mr. Hiff," I said, aghast, "can you possibly mean that you are charged with accepting relief checks while you had a private income?"

"How do you like that, hey?" mused Hiff. "George Washington! I never even knew they had relief in them days."

I could see it was true. "Mr. Hiff," I said frankly, "I have made a terrible mistake."

"Don't worry about it, hey," he answered, baring his Hutchinson's teeth in a kindly smile. "You just prove that Washington and them guys was relief chiselers and they ain't a jury in the country would convict me."

"Mr. Hiff," I said, "if you wish to retain another counsel, I stand ready to withdraw."

"You nuts?" he asked, giving me a playful push. "If I hire myself a mouthpiece, then they know I got dough and I'm licked. I got to take whatever they give me, even a punk like you, hey. But," he added, "I got to admit you sure pulled one out of the hat. George Washington! Jeez!"

"Mr. Hiff, there's something you must know. George Washington was not a relief chiseler, nor any of those people I mentioned."

His jaw flew open. "So why," he asked in a strangled voice, "did you tell the jury I was a rich man, hey?"

"It was an error," I admitted with a wry smile. "But not irreparable," I added. "In the first place, four of the jurors didn't hear me. As for the rest, I am confident that I can prove to them that you are a poor man and needed those relief checks. For, by your own admission, Mr. Hiff, you are innocent, and I offer you my solemn pledge that you will be freed."

"What," he cried, clutching his head with both hands, "did I get myself into? Why didn't I cop a plea?"

"Truth crushed to earth," I continued, "shall rise again. Depend on me, Mr. Hiff. I shall not fail you."

"Ah, shaddup," said the defendant.

"The State will damn well call its first witness," said Judge Schram.

Swanson promptly called a man named Homer Lascoulie, who was rushed to the witness chair by two bailiffs and hurriedly sworn. "What is your occupation, Mr. Lascoulie?" asked Swanson.

"I am a cashier of the First National Bank."

"Are you familiar with the defendant Hiff?"

"Yes, I have seen him at the bank making deposits on many occasions."

Swanson walked over to the exhibits table, picked up a large filing card, and returned to the witness. "Do you recognize this card, Mr. Lascoulie?"

(continued on page 50)Harry Riddle(continued from page 10)

"Yes, It is one of the cards we use at the bank to record the balances of depositors."

Swanson handed him the card. "Will you read the name on the card, please?"

"Sam Hiff."

"Now will you read the balance which is recorded there?"

"$14,896.20."

"The State offers this card in evidence as Exhibit A," said Swanson.

"I object, your worship," I cried, rising to my feet.

"Ah, shaddup," said Judge Schram.

"Your witness," said Swanson to me.

"No questions," I said, for indeed I could not think of any.

Swanson then called in rapid succession the cashier of the Farmers and Merchants National Bank, who testified that Hiff had $9,106.53 on deposit there, the cashier of the Main Street Savings Bank, who testified that Hiff had $4,653.08 on deposit there, the cashier of the Commercial Bank and Trust Company, who testified that Hiff had $17,094.80 on deposit there, a man named One-Eye Harrison, who testified that he was employed in a billiard parlor owned by Hiff, a man named Brains Ellingboe, who testified that he was employed in a pinball-machine business owned by Hiff, a man named Dirtyface Hogan, who testified that he was employed in a bar and grill owned by Hiff, and landlord of the Elmhurst Park Towers, who testified that Hiff paid $400 a month for his quarters in that apartment house, the manager of the Bon-Ton Furniture Emporium, who testified that Hiff had paid him $8,965.38 to furnish his apartment, and the manager of the Bicycle Playing Cards Corporation, who testified that Hiff had ordered a boxcar of pinochle decks from him.

Although I was sure that there was some simple explanation to account for all the facts brought out by these witnesses, I could not for the moment think of it and I was forced to let them all go without cross-examination. I kept patting Hiff's arm reassuringly through all the testimony, but he did not seem to take much comfort from it. He sat slack-jawed and dull-eyed -- until the State called Esme Geddes to the stand. Then he perked up.

"Lookit, hey," he said eagerly to me as Miss Geddes took the witness chair. "Now there is my idea of a real piece."

It was mine too, frankly, but I should not have put it so vulgarly. Miss Geddes did not have the spare frame that is so highly regarded by modern young women; she had instead a toothsome sleekness. There was flesh on this girl, and although it did not sag, there was no place on her body that would not provide satisfaction to a man bent on pinching. Her face was round and pert, with full, soft lips and eyes of deep blue. Her hair was the color of honey.

A young woman of Miss Geddes' contours would ordinarily give the impression of voluptuousness, even carnality. Not so Miss Geddes. There was a levelness in her blue eyes, an attitude in her erect carriage that spoke only of good breeding, of honesty, straightforwardness, principle, and dignity. A fine young woman, it was clear. A noble young woman; an American princess.

"Did you ever see a pair of knockers like that in your life?" asked Hiff.

As a matter of fact, I had not, but I did not reply.

Miss Geddes settled herself in the witness chair and pulled her simple but expensive frock over her knees. She took the oath, Judge Schram pinched her, and Swanson began the questioning.

"Your name is Esme Geddes?"

"Yes."

"And you are with the county welfare board?"

"Yes."

"What kind of work do you do for the country welfare board?"

"Investigating relief clients, mainly. Sometimes I am sent out to shame an unwed mother, but mainly I investigate relief clients."

"You were the investigator in the case of the defendant Hiff?"

"Yes. We became suspicious after he had called for his relief check several times in a chauffeur-driven car."

"Did you go to the defendant Hiff's apartment at the Elmhurst Park Towers?"

"Yes."

"Will you describe the apartment for his honor and the jury?"

"I cannot recommend its decor, but I am sure it was very expensively furnished. The marble bathtub in the living room alone must have cost ten thousand dollars."

"How did the defendant Hiff greet you when you arrived?"

"He kissed my hand."

"Romance 'em, I always say," said Hiff, tugging my arm. "A broad likes to be romanced, I don't care who it is."

I jerked my sleeve distastefully from his grasp.

"Then what happened, Miss Geddes?"

"I asked him why he was on relief."

"What did he say?"

" He said he was out of work."

"What did you say?"

"I asked him what kind of work he did."

"What did he say?"

"He said he was a horsecar conductor."

"What did you say?"

"I asked him if he had tried to find another job."

"What did he say?"

"He said: 'What do you want to be a nosy Parker for? Sit down and I'll fix you a drink. You'll feel like a new broad.' "

"What did you say?"

"I declined with thanks."

"What did he say?"

"He pushed me down on a twenty-four-foot divan covered in cloth of gold and started to make advances."

"Yup," nodded Hiff. "That's what I did, hey."

I growled in my throat; there was a red film over my eyes.

"What did you say?"

"I said: 'Whatever can you be thinking of, Mr. Hiff? ' "

"What did he say?"

"He did not answer the question but grasped me about the neck and proceeded to conduct himself in a most ungentlemanly manner."

That was too much. Seizing a volume of Corpus Juris which was lying on the defense table, I swung it with all my force into the mouth of the defendant Hiff. "You cad!" I shrieked. "You unspeakable, unspeakable cad!" I threw him to the floor and leaped up and down on his head. He scrambled to his feet and tried to run from the room, but I threw a small juror at him and knocked him down again. I should have certainly killed him had I not been overcome by several bailiffs.

At length I was quieted and placed in a restraining jacket to await contempt proceedings and disbarment. A bus boy in a cafeteria may never realize great wealth, but it is a secure and honorable position -- and not entirely void of possibilities for future advancement.

From the novel Sleep Till Noon, published by Doubleday & Co. Inc. Copyright 1950 by Max Shulman. Reprinted with permission of Harold Matson.