.'THE OREGON '-SUNDAY' JOURNAt;' PORTTxAND, SUNDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER ; 211919.
Bu
iHIS is a writ of habeas
corpus," began Mr.
Crooksbanks, pro
nouncing the words
with professional rel
ish,, "to inquire into
the sanity of one John
Dixon." The judge
slightly inclined his head, examined the
papers handed him by the clerk, and
glanced casually at the prisoner, whose
lack-lustre eyes roved vacantly and whose
ill-fitting garments hung loosely about his
emaciated figure.
"Part Two" of the Supreme Court was phraseology of ftfe document charging the
through its buslpess for the day, except defendant in the old-time legal verbiage
an indictment, yellow with age and be
spattered with Inks of many colors.
"Homicide of- the degree of murder,
first degree. (Sec, 183 Penal Code.)
"The People vs. John Dixon. Filed 3rd
day of October, 1884. Pleads not guilty.
"Counsel, Stephen O'Reilly. Peter B.
Smith, District Attorney. A true bill
Edward Norton, Foreman. Oct. 22, 1884.
"Jury find defendant insane. Sent to
Hudson River State Hospital at Pough
keepsie. "N. Y. Supreme Court."
The assistant glanced through the quaint
for this writ of Crookshanks's ftbe little
lawyer always made it a point to turn up
at the end of the calendar), and the only
other figures in the room were those of
Dockbridge, the young assistant district
attorney; the keeper from Matteawan and
a pale young woman who sat in a far
corner. . .
"Well, well, Mr. Crookshanks, be as brief
as you can," remarked his honor, leaning
back resignedly;
"I am always brief," returned the lawyer
with gravity. "The case is simply this:
Twenty years ago my client, Mr. Dixon,
was indicted by the Grand Jury for murder
in the first degree. He was to have been
prosecuted by my honored father, then an
assistant district attorney, and defended
(here Crookshanks coughed slightly) by
the scrupulous Mr. Stephen O'Reilly. But
the unexpected happened as usual and
on-the day set for his trial the prisoner
suddenly became insane. Thereupon a
good-natured Jury promptly adjudged him
Incapable of understanding the proceed
ings or making a defense, and he was im
mediately clapped into the State asylum.
Remember, this was twenty years ago,
your honor. To-day, willy-nilly, he would
have been most incontinently hanged. '
"I -Inherited, fortunately or unfortu
nately, whichever the court may consider,
Mr. Stephen O'Reilly's law practice, and
the other day, rummaging among his pa
pers, I chanced upon some memoranda
which led me to visit the defendant at his
place of confinement. I found, much as I
had expected, that time had ameliorated
his condition and that he had regained his
strength of mind. I therefore exhumed
him. My young friend," nodding toward
tho assistant, "agrees with me that Mr.
Dixon is now entirely Bane and should be
tried for his offense."
"Ought to be, but can't as Mr. Crook
shanks knows exceedingly well," interpo
lated Dockbridge with sarcasm.
"Why not?" inquired the court.
"The evidence against him has suc
cumbed to age," replied the prosecutor.
"He's sane, all right. We don't oppose the
writ. He's sound as a drum."
"Then this is an 'amicable proceeding'?"
continued the Judge.
"It could not be more so," murmured
Crookshanks.
"Of course, there's no opposition," re
turned Dockbridge. "Your honor will have
to let him go and remand him to the
Tombs pending trial!"
"Stand up, Mr. Dixon," directed his
honor. The prisoner rose heavily to his
feet. "What was the particular form of
your affliction?"
"Voices, your honor, I heard voices
voices and bells rlngin' all the time," he
hesitated. "But I don't hear 'em now! I
can't hear 'em now! I heard 'em for
twenty years," he added, unemotionally.
'Appears to be sane enough, don't he,
your honor?" inquired his counsel.
"I think he is quite as sane as you are,
Mr. Crookshanks," answered the court,
dryly.
"That is ambiguous," returned the
lawyer.
The judge scribbled something on the
back of the writ.
"Defendant discharged," said he, briefly,
. blotting the order. The keeper arose and
snapped a handcuff across the prisoner's
wrist. Crookshanks shuffled his papery
together, bowed to the court and congratu
lated his client.
"Everything's all right now," he chirped,
briskly. "You'll be out in a week!"
The girl slipped forward and tucked the
prisoner's arm through her own.
"Come on, father," she whispered, en
couragingly, and the strange group strag
gled slowly out.
"Queer case, isn't it?" remarked Dock
bridge to the judge. "Not -a shred of evi
dence left against him. Of course, we'll
have to turn him out. He's had an awful
dose of it punishment enough for any
man. Think of it twenty years!"
"It's a Ion? time," acquiesced his honor,
gazing thoughtfully out of the window
toward Broadway. "I wonder how the
devil Crookshanks happened to remember
the chap was still in the asylum and why
he didn't try to get him out before."
"Possibly waiting for the daughter to
grow up and earn the fee," suggested the
assistant. "Crookshanks is a wonderful
man. There isn't any fish too small for
his net. Good-night, sir."
"Oyez, oyez!" cried the officer. "This
court stands adjourned until to-morrow
morning at 10 o'clock."
"Good-night. Mr. Dockbridge," said the
judge. "I quite agree with you about
Crookshanks,"
II.
Dockbridge sat in"hl3 office smoking a
bad cigar and reading with interest
with mortally wounding one Edward Tyng
with a pistol, which he "did shoot off and
discharge, with the leaden bullet afore
said, In and upon the heart of Tyng afore
said," of which he, "the said Tyng, did for
a long time languish and langui3hlngly
did die."
"Paid by the word!" grunted Dockbridge.
"Paid by the word, by George! Wish I
was paid by the word!" And he wondered
how long "the said
Tyng would have
languished if the or
iginal dratighters of
indictments had been
reimbursed in some
other fashion.
Inside the indict
ment a "Trial Brief"
furnished the neces
s a r y information
which he sought. It
had been compiled
by Murcheson, a
fiery prosecutor now
long, since dead, a
contemporary of the
assistant's father.
"It appears," ran
the . brief, in its
crabbed penmanship,
"that Dixon was em
ployed by the de
ceased as a typeset
ter. On the after
noon of September
27. 1884, the two had
a quarrel in regard
to some night work.
The assistant fore
man, Washburn, was
present at the time.
The deceased be
came incensed and
struck Dixon with
his open hand. The
latter stepped back,
and exclaiming, 'No
man has ever struck
me before, and you
will never live to do
it again,' pulled a
pistol from his poc
ket and fired, the
bullet entering the
employer's right
breast and passing
transversely across
the body. Tyng relr
and expired almost
Instantly. Dixon
handed the pistol to
Washburn, . saying,
calmly, 'Here take
the gun WTash '
" 'Why did you do
it. Bill?' asked Wash
"Bloodthirsty old brute!" he muttered. .
He relit his cigar and pondered oyer the
pile of manuscript lying on the desk be
fore him. How quickly time flew! And
how men had a way of dying! Tyng first
well, count him out! There was Smith,
the district attorney! Norton, the foreman
of the Grand Jury; old Murcheson, gone
long before his quarry; the coroner, the
policeman, and, yes, Washburn, too, the
only witness, was dead. He examined the
date carefully. And all this time the de
fendant had slumbered peacefully, first at
Poughkeepsie and then at Matteawan, bob
bing up in a new generation on a habeas
corpus. Lucky for him he hadn't slum
bered there forever.
This insanity business had evidently
been just as big a nuisance in the time of
the forefathers as It was now. You never
could tell. Voices and bells!
"Why, anybody could pretend to hear
voices and bells!" thought Dockbridge.
"But suppose- he did hear 'em! Wouldn't
I have heard 'em if I'd killed a man?"
He had often heard the experts talk
was. He's been very nice. He says the
witnesses are all dead."
"Why didn't he let you know that be
fore?" "I asked him that and he said he had
forgotten all about it until he was lookln
over some old papers Mr. O'Reilly had left,
and even then he mightn't have done any
thing, only he found a slip with something
on It that made him think that maybe
father perhaps"
"Might have gotten well," finished Dock
bridge, grimly. "So he offered to get him
safely out for two hundred dollars? So
kind of him!"
"Well," answered the girl, "it seems he
wasn't Quite sure about it, so he went up
to Matteawan (father had been transferred
from Poughkeepsie, you understand) and
found that he was all right." .
"Humph!" growled the assistant.
The girl burst Into tears.
"Poor old father," she sobbed. "Twenty
years! When we might have been so
happy together! And I never knew!"
Dockbridge, perceiving that for the mo-
crowding forward. He felt again that'
sense of sweet possession then snap it
was off again! Through the white flashes
he tried to catch the pictures, but they
blurred one into the other. One flashed
whiter than the rest, and in the dark that
followed he thought he heard the ding
dong tolling of the bell, and his heart al
most stopped beating as he saw strange
figures crowding, running, gesticulating.
Blackness again, and through it he felt the
clinging arms of a little child and the hot
tears of his wife upon his face. He
groaned and tried to clasp them to him,
but they slipped away and in place of
them, beside an iron door, stood O'Reilly's
"runner." Yes, there he was, fat, pudgy,
suggestive of a gorged and lazy spider.
He slapped Dixon on the back and spat
dexterously through a slit of a window.
How distinct his voice sounded! "No
lawyer? 'What! Why, O'Reilly would
have him out in a week! You could al
ways work 'self-defense.' An eye-witness
was there? I'm! That was bad! But
there were ways you understand? Given
enough money the
v Mki4kXfi ' -lld if 111- V lt
i If ft Mirm 4:f I.l2J
"If All Right Now, Father," She Whispered. "The Judge Is Going to Discharge You and
Then We'll Go Right Away Together.
,
" 'I don't know,' replied Dixon.
"Just then the bell of the refectory of
the Dominican Fathers began to ring 6
o'clock, so that Washburn can identify the
time with exactitude. When Dixon heard
the bell he said grimly, 'That's the knell
for poor old Tyng and me.' Washburn
immediately summoned the police."
A note at the bottom of the page read,
"I find that the bell was ringing 790'clock
not 6. L. Murcheson."
Dockbridge grunted again.
"Just like old Murcheson to put that in.
I'd like to' know what difference it made
whether that bell was ringing 6 or 7
or 13!"
A loose sheet lying beneath the brief
contained only the words in a large
scrawl:
"Washburn is the only material and im
portant witness. No one else was present
at the shooting. Subpoena him sure.
Can't convict without him."
Another hand had written below:
"T. W. Washburn is employed at the
Mechanical Type Foundry at No. 2190
Head street. He can come at any time."
Underneath lay an unfinished letter, be
gun by Murcheson to some unknown
friend but never finished.
"Dear S
"You know that I was to try Dixon for
murder and had hoped that it would en
hance my reputation to a considerable de
gree. It was a clear case and he would
undoubtedly have been convicted, but
what do you suppose has happened? Just
as I was about to move the indictment he
goes insane! So, of course, I lose my
chance and Dixon goes to the asylum in
stead of to the scaffold. There is no doubt
but that he is really out of his head, but
probably he will soon recover sufficient
to be tried at least I hope so."
Dockbridge crumpled the letter in his
fist
about the "voice" form of insanity that
bete noire of the doctors the last straw
of the desperate the only hope of the
convicted.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "Twenty
years in that den of beasts!"
A hesitating tap came at the door.
"Oh, come in," snorted the assistant,
without get'ting up.
The door opened and he saw the Dixon
girl.
"I beg your pardon," he cried, jumping
to his Qet. "I thought it was one of those
infernal book agents. Come in. How's
your father?"
The girl smiled and took the chair he
offered.
"Father's feelin' well, I reckon, thank
you."
Dockbridge shifted his cigar.
"No sign of anything wrong here, is
there?" He tapped hlS forehead.
"No, indeed. It's iard to believe there
ever was."
Dockbridge gave one of his grunts.
"How did you come to wait so long to
get him out?"
"I didn't wait at all," answered the girl.
"I thought- he was dead. They all told
me so. When mother died I went to the
orphanage. Let me seethat was In Octo
ber, '84. I was a little child. When I grew
up the matron said I had no parents living.
I went out West to work on a farm in
Minnesota, and I have been there ever
since. Two weeks ago I got a letter from
the lawyer. He said father was alive and
in an asylum and that he would get him
out for two hundred dollars. I'd saved up
more than that, so I came right on. It
turned out that the lawyer had used to
know Mr. O'Reilly, father's lawyer that
(C) 1319, International Featut Service, Inc.
ment she had entirely forgotten the ter
rible alternative, did not reply.
"Cheer up, cheer up," he said at length.
"We'll get him out fast enough and you
can be happy together yet."
Then he got up and opened the door.
"Now, promise not to worry," said he
encouragingly, "and I'll dismiss the in
dictment to-morrow."
III.
Dixon stood at the bar of the General
Sessions, listening stolidly while Doofc
brldge stated the facts of his case to an
unsympathetic court. Beside him the fair
haired girl, who he tried so hard to realize
had been his own little baby, smiled and
patted his thin, blue-veined hand as it
rested upon the oaken rail.
"It's all right now, father," she whis
pered. "The judge is going to discharge
you and then we'll go right away together.
I've got the tickets. Everything is ready."
"Yes, yes," he muttered. How like Ann's
voice her"s was! His eyes rested vacantly
on the soft, white cheek and delicate
throat. How like Ann she was herself! A
great sob shook his weak frame. Then an
icy hand seemed pressing down upon his
forehead, the room turned black, and with
a click and a whirr the mechanism of his
brain flung picture after picture across his
vision. The courtroom, the Judge, the offi
cers all sank away, and in their place he
saw again the little back parlor in which
he, John Dixon, journeyman printer, in a
black broadcloth suit, was being married.
He saw Ann, bis Ann, standing there on
the arm of her old father, and smiling with
th same sweet smile as of old, and he
heard the voice of the clergyman. "For
better, for worse, for richer, for poorer,
till death us do part." Their friends were
Great Britain Sight BeserTe&
eye-witness might
disappear and no
questions asked."
"Do you want me
to have the blood of
two men on my
head?" gasped Dix
on's former self.
Nothing of the
kind. Of course not.
AVhat did Dixon take
Mr. O'Reilly for, any
way? He wasn't no
assassin. He was
just the cleverest
lawyer in the city,
that was all. He
could persuade. He
succeeded where oth
ers failed. He had
defended fifty homi
cides, and no one yet
got "murder in the
first." Wasn't that a
record ? O'Reilly
didn't need no adver
tisement. No posters
for him. They all
flocked to him. You
paid your money and
you went scot-free.
No cure, no pay but
the cure was guaran
teed. The spider crawled
away into the dark
ness, and in a clear
white flash Dixon
saw two men sitting
together in a small
room with heavily
barred windows. One
was his old self and
the other was the
man who had "saved"
him. The lawyer re
garded his client
with satisfaction, for
the latter was an ex
cellent subject
couldn't be better, he
said, and his voice
seemed like the
harsh grating of iron
doors. He was the
nroud inventor of
the "voice" business.
Put your hands so. No, the little finger
higher. Yes! That was it. Now look up
as if you heard something. Good! Now
say what was it? Oh, yes. '"Ding-dong!
Ding-dong! One, two. three, four!" Splen
did! The facts couldn't have been better
arranged if O'Reilly had invented them
himself. He grasped Dixon's cold hand.
His own was soft and sticky. Dixon could
feel it yet. It was the last hand he had
clasped before he was hurried away to
Poughkeepsie. Oh, that O'Reilly had been
a great fellow a man of superior intellect
real brain. Dixon had clung, to him as
to a father miserable shyster though he
was.
Then Dixon saw again plainly (as the
next picture flashed into his poor camera
obscura) the looks of pity and compassion
of the Jury when he had made his first
public essay In his awful role. He had
needed no further coaching. Given the
words and the gesture, his own jigony of
spirit had made the trick convincing be
yond question.
"We find the prisoner incapable of un
derstanding the proceedings against him,"
the foremanhad repeated.
He trembled again as he had trembled
the first time he had heard the words.
"Saved! Saved!" he had whispered to
himself. Under the counsel table O'Reilly
had patted his leg, but Dixon had shrunk
from him, he could not have told why.
Then he heard someone say, "Poor fellow,
it's a living death!"
Snap crack the pictures came to a
stop. Beyond that word "death" every
thing was a dull gray, shading off deeper
and deeper at the edges Into blackness,
and in the middle a red ball that whirled
round and round. Suddenly that, too,
faded. ' Then the veil was rent and h
found himself again. . But his brain was
chilled. Everything seemed very far away.
He passed his hand trembling across his
eyes and saw again Ann's chUC and his .
standing at his side.
Ho heard with a vague satisfaction
someone saying that the witnesses against
him were all dead, and that the People
had no evidence which would warrant his
his being placed on trial for his crime. He
had been told this before first by Crook
shanks and later by the keeper but he
had had his suspicions of both of them.
He had sacrificed too much to take any
chances at this late day. Even when the
lawyer had led him across the pavilion and
whispered shafply, when out of earshot of
the attendant, "I've looked it all up, Dixon.
You're all right. They've no case against
you," he had pretended not to understand
and muttered unintelligibly. But he had
really taken it all in and pondered over it.
Afterward, by degrees, he had gradually
become persuaded that it waa no trick, but
he had never been entirely sure.
These lawyers! That O'Reilly! O'Reilly
would have sold him out at any time for
a hundred dollars! But now he heard It
with his own ears. There could be no mistake-no
deception, fie was safe! The
consummation of his twenty years of suf
fering had been reached at last. During
all that time his faculties had been con
centrated upon the single task of feigning
insanity and yet remaining sane. At first
it had been easy enough. He had pre
tended, just as O'Reilly had directed, to
heai voices and bells that was all; and
whenever a keeper was by he had put hi8
hand to his ear and repeated the formulai
"Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ono-two
three four five six seven ! There's
the bell! There's the voice! There's an
other! Voices! . Voices!"
He had varied this and .rung changes in
it from time to time, but it had remained
.substantially the same. Soon habit had
become "ten times nature." The hand
would fly up of its own accord; the lips
would move automatically. Sometimes he
really thought he heard the voices and the
bell, but knew what that meant and
fought against it. Soon he lost all track
of time.
Then little Crookshanks had appeared
and beckoned him back to life, and ho had
waked partially from his dream of death.
John Dixon, the indictment against
you is dismissed Tor lack of evidence. You
are discharged."
A look of vacancy stole Into his face and
his right hand twitched upward. He
forced it down with an effort.
"You are discharged you are at lib
erty," repeated the clerk, gently.
Dixon looked about full of distrust.
Dockbridge smiled and nodded good
naturedly. "It's all right now, old chap; you can go
home with your daughter."
Then Dixon grasped the whole truth. He
had cheated the gallows, had outwitted
this whole sharp orew of judges and law
yers.. He Dixon had hoodwinked 'em
fooled 'em all, and with the simplest trick
in the world. First put your hand to your
ear and pretend to hear bella and voices
and then wait wait. Presently you were
free. That judge thought he was a smart
fellow. Well, if he only knew! The humor
of the situation began to take hold of
Dixon. He would Just like to tell that
Judge something. It was too good to keep.
He smiled cunningly.
He saw Dockbridge step forward snd
say something to the judge and heard the
judge laugh with a sneer, it seemed to
Dixon. He'd take him down a peg he'd
make him look like the fool he was, and
he laughed himself, a grim laugh his first
in twenty years.
"Judge." said Dixon, with a childish air.
"I'm scot-free, ain't I? You can't touch
me, can you?"
The Judge nodded, coldly.
Then Dixon's manner changed and he
leered slyly at the bench.
"Suppose I ain't never been Insane at
all? Who's the joke on then?" he chuckled
and glanced about him with triumph.
There was a moment's intense silence In
the crowded courtroom at the prisoner's
audacity. Again the Judge smiled bit
terly. "That depends upon the point of view,
Mr. Dixon." he replied, slowly, in a voice
low but distinct. "You are aware, I sup
pose" Dockbridge knitted his brows and shook
his head in the direction of the bench.
Dixon was not the flrBt nor will he be the
last criminal to feign madness, and always
over the feigner hangs the horror that he
will be "hoist with his own petard." Dock
bridge bad seen the farce played to a '
ghastly end before, and his glance turned
with the instinct of protection to the fair
haired girl, whose glad look had changed
to one of vague alarm. The Judge paid
him no attention, nor glanced at the girl;
but went mercilessly on.
"that the only witness against you
died the week after you were committed
to the asylum?"
The grin on Dixon's face lingered for full
half a minute, then faded, and in its place
spread a dusky pallor. For a moment he
clutched the rail with writhing fingers.
Tien the hand flew to his ear.
"Voices! Voices!" he whispered, thick
ly. "There'B the voice! There's another!"
The fire-bell in the corner tower began
to boom out Its tocsin. Dixon uttered a
hoarse cry?
"Ding-dong! Ding-dong! One two
three four five six seven. There's the
knell for poor old Tyng and me."
AS