Chapter 1

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Title: Tut, Tut! Mr. Tutt
Date of first publication: 1923
Author: Arthur Train (1875-1945)
Date first posted: Dec. 24, 2017
Date last updated: Dec. 24, 2017
Faded Page eBook #20171239

This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Stephen Hutcheson
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

TUT, TUT! MR. TUTT

BY
ARTHUR TRAIN

[Illustration: Publisher Logo]

THE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY
CLEVELAND AND NEW YORK

_Published by_ THE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY
2231 WEST 110TH STREET • CLEVELAND 2 • OHIO

TOWER BOOKS EDITION
_First Printing June 1945_
_Second Printing December 1945_

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

PAGE
THE BLOODHOUND 1
TUT, TUT! MR. TUTT 39
THE LIBERTY OF THE JAIL 83
HOCUS-POCUS 119
SAVING HIS FACE 155
IN WITNESS WHEREOF 191
THE TWELVE LITTLE HUSBANDS 232
THE CLOAK OF ST. MARTIN 275

TUT, TUT! MR. TUTT

THE BLOODHOUND

“Next!” The dejected file of prisoners beneath the glaring windows
stiffened and limped forward. There were twelve of them—the same number
as the minor prophets, the apostles, the tribes of Israel and the
officers of King Solomon—a bullet-headed negro in a red sweater, charged
with vivisection during a crap game, bringing up the rear. The line
humped along beside the iron grating like a caterpillar, those behind
butting forward those in front, turned the corner by the jury box and
disgorged two prisoners before the bar of judgment. It was the first
Monday in January—pleading day.

“Next!” repeated Phelan, the court captain, standing inside the rail, to
McNamara, his whipper-in. “Lively now!”

McNamara turned to the head of the line.

“You two there! Step up here!”

Mr. Dougherty, the tiny, bald-headed clerk with the big mustaches that
made him look like an animated mushroom, picked up the indictments on
the top of the blue pile in front of him.

“Patrick Mooney and Daniel Mulligan,” he intoned as if officiating at
the high altar of the cathedral, “you are jointly indicted for the crime
of burglary in the third degree, grand larceny in the first degree,
assault in the first degree, receiving stolen goods and carrying
concealed weapons. How say you? Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

Neither of the two made reply.

“Have you counsel?” sang Dougherty.

“Got a lawyer?” interpreted Captain Phelan.

There was a slight bustle on one of the nearer benches as a heavily
built man with sideburns came forward.

“I appear for both defendants, Your Honor,” said he. “They plead not
guilty. Will Your Honor set the case down for the twenty-first for
trial?”

The judge nodded and made a note, and the stout lawyer turned away,
about to resume his seat.

“Next!” shouted Phelan to the world at large. “Next!”

The taller of the two prisoners—a plug-ugly—wheeled from the rail and
started on the return trip. The other did not stir. He was a much
smaller man, hardly five feet six, and of a different make altogether.
He might have been your plumber, or electrician, or the grocer’s clerk
who takes your order at the side door; and though his demeanor was more
timid than any of these it was, nevertheless, defiant—some spark of
courage, or at least resolution, still surviving after his year in Sing
Sing.

“Judge—Your Honor,” he said huskily, twisting his cap in his hands—“this
man don’t represent me. I haven’t got any lawyer.”

Old Judge Watkins peered down from the dais at him over his reading
glasses. He then looked after the retreating attorney.

“How’s this, Mr. Hogan?” he asked. “I thought you said that you appeared
for both defendants.”

The attorney paused with a half smile.

“So I did, judge.”

“The prisoner Mooney says you do not represent him.”

“They’re indicted together—for the same offense, committed at the same
time. The defendant Mulligan’s sister came to my office yesterday and
retained me for both of ’em.”

“Judge—Your Honor,” repeated the man at the bar of justice stubbornly,
“I don’t know this lawyer and I don’t know this man I’m indicted with. I
never saw him before that night. I’m innocent, and I want a separate
trial with my own lawyer.”

Captain Phelan hoisted a blue shoulder and grinned at Mr. Dougherty. It
was the old game—the ancient grandstand play—of seizing this opportunity
to make a vigorous denial of guilt in the presence of the panel of
jurors newly assembled in court for a month’s service, in the hope that
by so doing one might avoid going on the stand later at one’s trial, and
so escape the disagreeable necessity of submitting to cross-examination
upon one’s record and earlier history.

“I only got out of prison Saturday, Your Honor,” continued the prisoner
Mooney, “after serving fourteen months—with an allowance off for good
behavior. I’m in no hurry to get back either, believe me! Sunday night I
was walking home, and this here defendant, Mulligan, came along with a
bag and began talking to me. Just then a bull jumped out and drew his
gun on us. He rapped for his side partner and they yanked us up to
headquarters, and when they found out I’d been in stir they said I was
due for another bit. Clubbed me, into the bargain! See that lump on my
forehead? Then the first cop said he found a gun on me. It’s a plant,
judge, I didn’t have one. What would I want with a gun, judge? What I
want is a chance to earn an honest living!”

He made his plea doggedly, yet with obvious hopelessness, for he no
longer had any faith in “the course of justice.”