From the Improvement Era, 1953 –

Unto the Least –

By Elsie Chamberlain Carroll

Judge Thorne looked again at the note scrawled on a piece of crumpled wrapping paper that had been shoved into his hand by a ragged little boy as he was leaving the courthouse.

“Jedge pleez giv butch a nother chancet hes mi bruther. Chuck Bell.” The judge smoothed the paper out on his desk, and as he noted the distorted words, he thought of the look in the eyes of the dark-faced culprit the message pleaded for. Now he remembered what it had reminded him of. It was the cringing, pleading expression in the eyes of a puppy he had smuggled into his room one wintry night when he was about ten years old. The starved, shivering dog had eaten food brought stealthily from the kitchen and had slept under his bed.

He recalled the debate that had ensued the next morning when his mother had discovered the stowaway and her final, “There’s no arguing with you. You never give up. You’re worse than a lawyer. But remember this – if you keep him, you can’t have him in the house.” Skipper, as he had named the dog, transformed by soap and water and loving care into a beautiful pet, had been the companion of his boyhood. He remembered that he had often told his mother that her words that morning, “You’re worse than a lawyer,” had sparked something inside him that had led to his career.

And now he was a judge, and tomorrow he must pass sentence on the wretched youngster who had reminded him of his dog. Youngster – he didn’t like cases involving young people. The prisoner was small and seemed immature, despite the seriousness of his clearly premeditated crime.

The telephone rang. It was Marian, his wife, wondering why the judge had not come home after the court session was over.

“I’ll be coming soon,” he promised her. “No; the evidence is all in, but I delayed passing sentence until tomorrow. You know how I hate thee cases involving kids. Any letter from Ted? Good. Well, I’ll be home before long. Good-bye now.”

He began straightening the books and papers on his desk and was about to throw the scrawled note into a wastebasket when he hesitated and dropped it into his coat pocket.

Outside his office the air was frosty. Small flakes of snow were drifting slowly to the ground. The moon shone through a haze and the sparse, dry leaves still clinging to the bare trees rattled in the chilly gusts of wind. From a restaurant up the street strains of “White Christmas” came faintly.

Yes, Christmas was almost here again, Christmas! Ironic, with the world in such a mess “… on earth peace, good will toward men,” and Ted, his only son, overseas as a serviceman. For what?

His heart seemed to contract with the weather as he thought of his boy.

He was unlocking his car when a small figure emerged from the shadow of the office building and limped to his side.

“Jedge, are ye goin’ t’ give Butch another chancet?”

Thorne looked down at the shivering child. In the glare of a nearby electric light the face looked pinched and gray.

“It was you who gave me the note this afternoon? You say he’s your brother?”

“Yep. Sort of. He takes care of me.”

“Where do you live?”

“Over by the river.”

He knew the place.

“How old are you, Chuck?”

“Seven, goin’ on eight.”

“How old is Butch?”

“He’s eighteen. He’s little, but he kin lick guys that’s twenty.”

“That’s why he’s in trouble – he’s one of the hoodlums that are always trying to ‘lick’ someone.”

“He ain’t no hoodlum, Jedge,” the little fellow flared. “he don’t fight ‘’less the others is doin’ something’ – specially to me. You’ll give him another chancet, won’t you?”

“Do you know why he’s in jail? He purposely wrecked another boy’s car and might have killed the boy. Maybe Gary Burke will never walk again.”

“I heard some o’ the guys sayin’ the lawyer is making out it’s worse’n it is ‘cause his ole man’s a big shot an’ wants Butch sent up. I was hurt worser’n him when a wall fell on me, an’ I kin walk.”

“No, the lawyer is not making it worse than it is. Your brother is a bad boy. Something must be done to protect innocent people from boys like him.”

“He ain’t bad. He takes care o’ me. An’ that Burke guy ain’t innocent. He had it in for Butch an’ all the guys over our way. He wuz allus commin’ down there in his shiny car a-showin’ off an’ yellin’ things at us. Butch ain’t bad. He brings me stuff to eat an’ gives me his old sweaters an’ things. He’s my brother, he says.”

Brother The judge winced. Be thou thy brother’s keeper.

The thought of that injunction left an uncomfortable feeling inside him.

“He isn’t your real brother?”

“Nope. But he says that don’t matter. Neither of us ain’t got nobody else, so we’re brothers. It’s cold and lonesome in the shanty when Butch is gone.”

“What do you eat now Butch is in jail?”

“Some of the guys gives me some of their grub sometimes – the ones what was with Butch when it happened. Only they got away when they got Butch. They tried to git Butch to squeal on the others, didn’t they? But he won’t never do that. That would be chicken.”

The sound of a telephone inside the building reminded Thorne of his promise that he would soon be home. He put his hand into his pocket for a dollar bill which he handed to the boy.

“Here, son, take this and buy you something to eat.”

Somehow this little act of generosity did not give him the sense of satisfaction he had expected.

“I don’t want the money less ye promise to give Butch another chancet. I don’t git very hungry now. Will ya, Jedge?”

“I can’t tell what I can do. I must go over all the testimony very carefully. I am glad for what you have told me. I promise to consider everything. Now you run along home.”

The boy limped a few steps toward the street. Thorne started to climb into his car. Home. The word clung to his mind.

“Wait a minute,” he called. “Come and get in with me. It’s getting cold. I’ll drive you.”

As they rode, the man found his thoughts in a turmoil. Why hadn’t they caught the “guys” who had run when Butch was caught? Could Gary Burke be in some way responsible for the crash which could so easily have killed him? He was arrogant, boastful, and proud of his father’s name and influence. That much everybody knew. Clearly, the facts had not all been brought out at the trial – at least not secondary facts he was now beginning to understand.

“Say, we forgot to get you something to eat,” Thorne said, as he saw a drive-in ahead of them. He pulled in at the place and honked for an attendant.

He ordered hamburgers, milk, and ice cream, and take-away sandwiches. When the food came, the boy reached out the bill the judge had given him.

“Keep that for another time. This is on me,” Thorne said.

“I’ll buy a Christmas present for Butch with it. Would they give it to him if he’s still in jail?”

“Of course.” The answer sounded gruff. The man cleared his throat. How would it seem to spend Christmas in jail. A kid – that would be worse than in an overseas outpost.

They drove on. Chuck was devouring his second hamburger. As they crossed the tracks, the judge noticed the sudden change in street lighting. The whole section was dim and dreary – here where good lighting was especially needed!

“Ye turn north here, Jedge. Our place is the fourth one over that way.” Dim lights shone from a few of the squatty shacks huddled in a marshy strip near the railroad coalyards. What a place to exist! No wonder kids became criminals.

“I’ll git out here. I don’t guess they’s room to drive much closter.”

“I’m coming with you, Chuck.”

“You better not, Jedge. The guys might do somethin’ to your car. I seen some o’ them hide when we was comin’ down the grade. They hate the looks o’ folk that drives swell cars.”

Butch doubtless hated the “looks” of Gary in his shining blue convertible.

“I’ll risk it.” He followed the child along an uneven, weed-choked path.

“I hope I kin find a piece of candle. Sometimes I can’t find it now Butch is gone, an’ I jist go to bed in the dark.”

“I’ll get my flashlight.”

The sight beyond the sagging, creaking door which Chuck pushed open was appalling – the floor littered with filth, a few wooden crates in lieu of chairs and table, a rusty old camp stove, a small pile of dirty, ragged blankets and old clothes in one corner.

“We ain’t got no chairs, but here’s a box if ya want t’ set down, Jedge.”

“No, Chuck. I must go. I’ve got a lot of things to do.” It seemed criminal to leave a child in such a hovel. Yes, there were many things to do – for him – for this city in which he lived. Resolutions for actions were taking shape in his mind.

“Can’t you find your candle?” he asked as the boy looked from place to place by the flashlight.

“Nope. Guess Skinny or Dope borrowed it. But I kin go to bed in the dark. It won’t seem bad now I ain’t hungry. Them hamburgers and stuff sure was good – and all this in the bag fer tomorrer. Thanks, Jedge, an’ fer bringin’ me home.”

Home. That word again – in such a place. Had the child ever known a home? What was his background and that of Butch – the one waif who had taken another waif under his wing – who had really become his brother’s keeper. He must find out many things before the opening of court in the morning.

Reluctantly he said good night and left the room, the child’s plea for Butch following him.

The night was growing colder. He shivered as he thought of the pile of rags into which Chuck was probably crawling.

As he drove toward town, strains of Christmas music came from loud speakers in various directions – Christmas carols and hymns sung for generations: “Jesus Once of Humble Birth,” “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” A symbolic star shone high above the church. The star, the carols – symbols of one who died for man – who had said to be thy brother’s keeper – “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these …” What was man doing for the world Christ had saved for him?”

Self-condemnation sickened him.

He stopped at a drugstore to telephone his wife.

“Marian, I’m sorry, but something has come up. I won’t be home for sometime yet. No, I’m all right. Nothing has happened. I’ll come as soon as possible. Don’t worry. Yes, yes, I’m all right. I have a plan for Christmas that I am sure will please you – and Ted. Yes, I’ll hurry. Good-bye.”

He drove to the city jail.

“I want to see Butch Moran,” he told the warden.

(To be continued)