The Man with the Wooden Spectacles. Harry Stephen KeelerЧитать онлайн книгу.
whut is mahhy to dat Jewishah lawyah. Fo’ Ah don’ wash clothes now an’ den fo’ Bella, lak Ah does, widout luhnin’ dat she des lazy-no-good—but dat all. W’ile yo’ half-uncle—he got snek-pizen in he’ veins!” Despite the vehemency of her dictum, Aunt Linda rocked peaceably. “Ah ain’ nebah got it cleah in mah min’, do’, Honeh, how yo’ Unc’ Silas ebah shell out fi’ thousum dollahs cash fo’ you to git th’u collige an’ lawying school, w’en he ain’t can eben leg’ly take no mohga’ge o’ nothin’ on yo’ nine-tenfs de way yo’ nine-tenfs was lef’.”
“How, Aunt Linda? Well I’ll tell you how! I simply signed what is known as an assignment of $15,000 of my receipts from the eventual sale of my 9/10ths share. Payable when I sell it.”
“Hm! Ah unnastan’ dat all right. Assignment! Mah brothah Jake long long ago—he daid now—he sign one ob dem t’ings to secuh anoddah niggah’s note—an’ de niggah, he nebah pay—an’ de Law it took fi’ dollahs a week f’m Jake’s wages fo’ 10 long months. But see heah, Chil’, you done got fi’ thousum dollahs. Whut ’ventu’lly got yo’ th’u school. Yit you sign a assignment fo’ fifteen thousum dollahs? Da’s pretty big int’rust, ain’t it?”
“Mighty big, Aunt, yes. When it’s calculated out. But my tied-up share in that tied-up property was the only thing on earth I could raise capital on.”
“Well, da’s true—an’ ain’ no ’ticklah hahm did anyway by de big ’screpancy ’tween fi’ thousum an’ fifteen thousum dollahs. Fo’ w’en you is thutty yeahs ol’ dat Colby’s Nugget is gonna be des dat ma’ much valy’ble dan is w’en you harried de money. Specially sence, as you say now, de taxes ain’ in de pictah nohow!”
“Yes, that’s quite true,” said Elsa. “For even today, Aunt, it’s conservatively appraised at $130,000—and my 9/10ths share alone, even minus the $15,000 assignment to Uncle Silas, is worth a round $100,000—plus a couple of thousand odd. But Aunt Linda—Aunt—did you ever hear of a quitclaim?”
“Whooie! Has Ah? Da’s how Ah los’ mah cottage on Thutty-Ninf St’eet. Way back, w’en you was on’y a little gal. In fac’, da’s ’zac’ly how come Ah come to wuk fo’ ye’ daddy—whut wus des lef’ widout no mama to take keer ob you. Ah done signed a claimquit fo’ a real ’state man des to hol’—an’ not to use, onless an’ maybe—an’ whut he do but ignoh de ‘onless an’ maybe’ an’ put mah claimquit on—on recohd, yes, da’s whut it wuz called—on recohd—an’ mah cottage wuz gone. Ah go to two w’ite lawyahs ’bout it. One, he say: ‘Don’ nebbah sign no claimquit—fo’ dey ain’ no goin’ behin’t o’ back ob a claimquit—dey dynamite’. An’ de oddah lawyah, he lissen to mah sto’y an’ he say: ‘Claimquits, madam, is mos’ dang’ous t’ings in all real-’state law. W’en dey is recordened—de lawyin’ is all obah! Gooday, madam.’ ”
Elsa might, under ordinary circumstances, have smiled, in spite of herself, at the picture Aunt Linda Cooksey had just drawn up: but smile, she did not, today—in the light of her own complications.
“Well, Aunt Linda,” was all she said, “claimquits—or quitclaims, as the right name is—are all of what your two lawyers told you. As I also heard, and as I also knew—some number of years back. But anyway, Aunt Linda, here’s what happened. The assignment I have to Uncle Silas was an assignment, unless—”
“On-less!” Aunt Linda stopped rocking. “Honey—you don’ mean you went an’ signed some kin’ ob a quitclaim?”
“Some kind of a one—yes, Aunt Linda! No less than a so-called contingential quitclaim, the validity of which type of quitclaim has been affirmed completely by the United States Supreme Court in the case of the Idaho and Wyoming Oil Company versus one Henry Barrows. I quitclaimed—though contingentially, understand?—all my right, title and interest in Colby’s Nugget. For Uncle Silas, Aunt, put a clause in that assignment that specif—but do you know what a clause is?”
“ ’Cose Ah do. ’Twas des account ob a clause in mah own grandfathah’s will dat Ah ’riginally ’herited dat house on Thutty-Ninf Street. So Ah knows w’ut it is. A clause, it’s a puhagraf whut state thus an’ so?”
“That’s right, Aunt Linda. Well, Uncle Silas put a clause in that assignment stating that, should I fail to acquit my first client—specifically, Aunt, my client in my first criminal case before the Bar—or get disbarred during my first three months of practice, my paper was to constitute a quitclaim complete for my share in Colby’s Nugget—in exchange for the $5,000 cash I’d already received.”
“W’y—dat ol’ rascal! He—but fus’, wut mean dis disbahhed?”
“That means, Aunt—well Aunt, you used to go with a jockey, didn’t you—in the long long ago?”
“Yes, Honey. De bes an’ de blackest one whut ebah ride de tracks. He uz so black dat he look, in a race, lak a empty suit pu’ched atop de hoss.”
“Well, disbarred, Aunt, means—in law circles—‘ruled off the turf.’ ”
“Oh—now Ah gits it cleah. Mah sweety he wuz rule’ off de tu’f mo’n once. Disbahhed means, den, dat some jedge o’ juhy o’ lawyah’s ‘sociation say you cain’t practice lawin’ fo a suttin length o’ time?”
“Exactly that.”
“Well den, w’y—but lissen, honeh, w’y you sign’ dis papah?”
“Because I didn’t read it, Aunt Linda. I was just turned 18—was badly in love—and rushing off to a dance where my first boy-friend was to be, and—”
“Oh yes—dat han’some no-good Barfin boy. Who he ebah mahhy an’way?”
“Oh—he married Grace van Sant, the winner of a beauty prize contest on the northwest side. And a really beautiful girl too.”
“Oh, he did, hey?” Aunt Linda was bridling up. “An’ Elsa Colby de mos’ beau’fullest chil’ in all Chicago, raght undah his snooty nose!”
“Heavens—no, Aunt Linda! Never beautiful, Elsa Colby—then nor now. The difference is that today I know it—but then I didn’t!”
“Well, you wrong, ’coze you hund’ed puh cent sweet. An’ clebah. An’ you—but let dat pass.” Aunt Linda surveyed Elsa solicitously. “You is got regretments, mebbe, honey—an’ hahtache, mebbe—dat you nebah get to mahhy wit’ de Barfin boy?”
“Heavens no, Aunt! For after I found that good-looking boys are interested, at best, in homely girls only be. cause—” Elsa’s face pinked almost as red as her hair. “At least,” she broke off, “when I found he was interested in me in a quite different way than I in him—” She broke off again. “Well, I ceased to care for him in a jiffy. Anyway, Aunt, that first love is always a most ridiculous thing.”
“Ain’ it de truf? De fus’ boy Ah ebah had, he—but le’s git back to dis bus’ness. So you went an’ signed dis cutth’ot papah.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“An’ whut on yarth did dat rascal say w’en you latah discovah dat clause? As you musta did?”
“Oh he said, Aunt, that he had just put it in as a sort of ‘joke’—to teach me my first lesson in law. It was something, he said, that of course he’d never enforce.”
“Oh, he did, hey? Bet he didn’ say dat ‘fo’ any witnesses?”
“That’s right, I will admit,” Elsa conceded. “He said it only at a time and place when we were quite alone.”
Aunt Linda nodded darkly. “So he tell you he des gibbin’ you a free lesson, heh? Well, dat man don’ gib nobody nuffin’, let alone free lessons! He des tuk a gen’al chance on slippin’ in somep’n about somep’n whut mought happen—an’,