“Tom” Kinsella, the late politician and journalist of Brooklyn, was neither romantic nor funny as a rule, but in the commencement of his career, in and around the City of Churches, he figured in one little episode of a rather out of the way and serio-comic description. He tried his hand once at descriptive writin’, and determined to “do” personally the villages of Long Island lyin’ around Brooklyn, as a means of attractin’ attention and subscribers to his paper.
He took it into his head that he had somethin’ of the Dickens in him, and that he would give it full scope by personally seein’ what was to be seen in these Long Island villages, and writin’ up what he saw.
So he selected Jamaica to begin his operations in. He, however, didn’t see much there, but made the most of what he did see, and then tramped on to the next place and wrote that up, and so on. He went about on foot, because it was cheaper than goin’ any other way, and, besides, he saw more of the places and the people that way. But this walkin’ had one serious objection to it: the people were likely to mistake the pedestrian for the tramp, and treat him accordin’ly.
“Tom” hadn’t calculated on that, and yet he got more experience from bein’ mistaken for a tramp than he did from all his investigations as a reporter.
In the course of his travels he struck that peculiar suburb of Brooklyn, called Hempstead, then a regular old-fashioned country place, which, for all the life and enterprise in it, might have been located three hundred miles in the interior.
Just at the time he struck Hempstead, a number of mysterious robberies, none of ‘em very big, but very annoyin’, had struck it, too, and had caused an intense stir in the sleepy old place. I am not sure, on the whole, but that the majority of the population of Hempstead–that is, that part of it which had not suffered loss from robberies–did not secretly regard these mysterious burglaries, etc., as “blessin’s in disguise,” for they gave ‘em something to talk about and kept ‘em from dyin’ of stagnation.
The majesty of the law in Hempstead was represented by one “squire” and two “constables,” who were, of course, mightily exercised about these mysterious robberies, and who, though they didn’t know anythin’ about ‘em, went about lookin’ as if absolutely in danger of burstin’ with sternly repressed intelligence, in regard to ‘em.
The regular police force of Brooklyn took a hand in tryin’ to get at the bottom of these robberies; and, of course, their efforts in this direction were looked upon alike with apprehension and disgust by the official three of of Hempstead. These last regarded the robberies as essentially a “Hempstead funeral,” a “local” affair, and didn’t want any interlopers rushin’ in and tryin’ to deprive ‘em of the laurels which were waitin’ for ‘em when they had unearthed the robbers.
The Brooklyn police, for their part, looked upon the Hempstead officials as country louts, and duffers, and didn’t pay the slightest attention to ‘em, nor recognize ‘em in any way. So the blood was bad between ‘em.
The Brooklyn officers made arrests right and left; made a good many more arrests than they did discoveries; in fact, all the discoveries that they made were that the arrest they made were all wrong. This riled the Hempstead police and people to fever heat, and they began to look upon a Brooklyn detective with more disfavor than they would have looked upon the robbers ‘emselves.
At this stage of the situation came ‘Tom” Kinsella on the scene, and made his entry on foot into Hempstead.
At that particular time every stranger in Hempstead was regarded with suspicion, either as a possible “mysterious robber” or a Brooklyn policeman, and “Tom” was at once taken for either and both of these objectionable characters.
“Tom,” at first was unaware of this, and went about the place in his rovin’, free and easy manner, askin’ all sorts of questions of all sorts of people, getting points for his descriptive article. This sort of proceedin’, of course, made him look all the more suspicious. And by night time, before he had been in the place twelve hours, he was a marked man.
Now nobody can be a “marked man” long without knowin’ it, least of all in a place of the caliber of old Hempstead. So Kinsella, who up to supper time had forgotten himself altogether in his eagerness for his descriptive work, began to see, after supper, that his rather unusual style of goin’ about had been remarked. And bein’ very quick of apprehension, he soon came to the conclusion that owin’ to the mysterious robbery, of which he had already been told, here and there, he was looked upon as a “doubtful” character, perhaps as a rogue and robber. This rather tickled Tom, and he determined to carry out the mistake as a good joke.
So, in the bar room of the old tavern, after supper, he darkly hinted at crimes and criminals and, used a little “crooked” slang which he had got from the Rogues Lexicon, and did a little mysterious business generally.
This settled it. The three Hempstead officials had already been studyin’ him up; but had been divided in opinion concernin’ him–one of the constables previously insistin’ that he was really a Brooklyn detective, puttin’ up a job. But after Tom’s after-supper mysterious hints, all three came to the conviction that the mysterious stranger was in some way connected with the mysterious “gang” of thieves who had been robbing Hempstead, and it was unanimously resolved to arrest him on suspicion. True, there was no real evidence against him to warrant the arrest; but the Brooklyn Police hadn’t waited for evidence. Besides, if they should find that they had made a mistake this time, why, it would only be what the Brooklyn Police had done many times already, and then the Brooklyn Police needn’t know anything about it. The mistake, if mistake it should prove, could be kept quiet. So it was resolved to arrest the mysterious stranger that very night.
But who was to arrest him? Of course it wasn’t the “squire’s” place to make an arrest. True, he was the “chief of the police,” but on this occasion he regarded himself as ex-officio–only chief “by courtesy.” He reluctantly (!) relinquished all the active work of arrestin’ to the two constables.
And the younger of the two constables, taking the cue from the “chief,” likewise reluctantly (!) relinquished the chance of making the arrest in favor of his older and more experienced colleague, who was professionally entitled to the honor–if any, and the danger–if any.
Now the “older and more experienced colleague” was as chicken-hearted a constable as any rogue could have desired; but now it was “do or die” with him. This was the “chance of a lifetime.” So when Tom, suspectin’ what was up, and anxious to start the fun, left the tavern about nine o’clock for a “walk before goin’ to bed,” as he said, the “older and more experienced” constable started out at his heels, with the other constable at his heels again, and the “chief of the police” stoppin’ cautiously along at the heels of the second constable, and all the human contents of the barroom treadin’ on the heels of the chief–quite a procession–of which “Tom” pretended to be utterly oblivious.
Tom walked, the constables walked, the chief walked, the procession walked. Finally, wantin’ to hurry up the fun, Tom stopped walkin’. All the rest stopped–the younger and less experienced constable gettin’ safe behind a big tree in the vicinity, the chief gettin’ behind the constable and the procession gettin’ behind the chief, all further and further from the mysterious stranger and the possible danger.
Then, pluckin’ up what courage he had about him, the “older and more experienced” constable touched Tom lightly on the arm. The touch wouldn’t have harmed a baby. The suspected criminal at once resigned himself, with a really suspicious readiness, without makin’ any fuss, into the hands of justice. Tickled beyond measure at his success (and almost as much surprised at it), the constable led Tom towards the combined lock-up and court-house; and now, that there was goin’ to be no trouble, the other constable and the chief of the police and the rest of the procession came from behind the trees and from behind each other and marched proudly along towards the court-house and the jail, only this time the chief of police resumed his rightful place, and walked majestically in front.
Before Tom and his escort got to the combined court-house and lock-up three-fourths of the population of Hempstead was in the streets, or rather street (there was but one that amounted to anythin’), following in the wake of the procession.
Arrivin’ at the log hut in the rear of the tavern which answered the purpose of a city hall, the squire, with an overwhelmin’ air of judicial dignity, took his seat on the bench–literally an old “bench” which was placed in front of the desk in that portion of the log cabin which answered the purpose of a court-house.
He put on an air as if he had never set eyes on the stranger before. “What is this man accused of?” he asked of the constables.
But he couldn’t have asked a more embarrassin’ question. What the deuce was the man accused of, anyway? Nothin’ but walkin’ around, askin’ questions and talkin’ mysteriously–none of ‘em offenses against the law.
At last, the arrestin’ constable managed to trump up some sort of case against the man arrested, and with ponderous solemnity the old squire asked the “prisoner at the bar”, or wherever he was, all manner of questions about himself, which Tom answered in a darkly vague way, purposely makin’ misstatements and contradictions, which led the officials to think more and more that they were on the brink of some startlin’ discovery.
But if they were on the brink, they never got beyond it; for with all Tom’s desire to horrify and mystify ‘em, all that could really be proved was that the arrested man was an individual who was apparently engaged in some business or occupation which he didn’t feel like makin’ public. All the attempts to connect “Tom” with any of the recent robberies utterly failed, and for a very peculiar though sufficient reason. “Tom” in his present mood was perfectly willin’ to pose as a “robber.” If he had only known the facts connected with the robberies, he would have shaped his replies so as to have associated himself with ‘em; but, not knowin’ anythin’ about the details or the local points, why, of course he couldn’t.
Tom Kinsella, bein’ innocent, tried as hard to seem guilty, as ever a guilty man did to seem innocent, but in vain. Spite of all the constables’ efforts to convict him, and spite of all his efforts to convict himself, he couldn’t manage to be found guilty. All that could be charged against him was that his account of himself was not consistently satisfactory, as it certainly wasn’t.
In the course of his examination a search was made of his person, which Tom submitted to with readiness, and a toothpick, some theater seat coupons, a pocket comb, some clippin’s and ten dollars in money happened to be found on him.
As soon as the officials saw these ten dollars they had a private caucus among ‘emselves, the results of which were soon embodied in the address delivered by “the learned judge,” squire and chief of the Hempstead police, to the suspected individual at the bar of justice. “After due deliberation you are found guilty,” said the magistrate, “of being a suspicious character, and as you can’t give any satisfactory account of yourself, you are hereby fined” (here the magistrate hesitated a moment, he was on the point of sayin’ “ten,” but he divided by two) “five dollars, or in default of payment go to the county jail, and be imprisoned therein for ten days.”
The Squire thought of course this settled it; that the suspected man would only be too glad to get out of jail and the village by handin’ over a fiver, which would be very acceptable in the low state of the Hempstead public exchequer.
But to his surprise and consternation, the suspected man, contrary to all expectations and precedent, refused to pay his fine, and prefered the alternative of goin’ to jail. This jail business was just what Kinsella was after. It would not only be an adventure, but would enable him to learn all about the place and people; it would give him somethin’ to write up; it was the very thing.
The Squire could hardly believe his ears, but Tom reiterated his refusal to pay and his readiness for prison. “In consideration of your youth and inexperience, young man,” said the judge, benignly, a moment later, “the court reduces your fine to three dollars, only three dollars, or ten days in jail.”
But rather than pay the paltry three dollars, the hardened wwretch before the bar of justice preferred the shame and confinement of a prison, although he had more than three times the fine in his clothes.
This was a disgustin’ exhibition of the meanness of human nature, and the constables blushed for their sex.
They also blushed with embarrassment for another reason. The village of Hempstead was poor, and economical, and taxes were low. Now to keep a prisoner ten days in the jail would require at least twenty meals for him, and the village would be taxed for the twenty meals. Then there would have to be a little fire, and above all, as the “lock-up” was only so in name, somebody would have to watch the prisoner night and day to see that he stayed “locked up,” and you may be sure that neither the old nor the young constable hankered after this job, especially as Tom was then quite muscular and vigorous and could have made things lively for anybody who wanted to keep him in if he wanted to get out.
So there was another pow-wow between the three officials, the crowd generally bein’ before this sent off and waitin’ outside, so as not to disturb justice in its deliberations.
Then, after the second pow-wow, the judge redelivered the sentence of the court, modifyin’ it once more:
“You must either pay a fine of $2 or be imprisoned for a fortnight,” said the magistrate, decreasin’ the fine and increasin’ the penalty so as to produce an impression on the culprit.
But still the obdurate and shameless rascal refused to pay and preferred the jail. He evidently didn’t value his freedom at $2.
Then the Hempstead officials had still another pow-wow, and the judge issued his fourth ultimatum.
“Young man,” he said solemnly, “it is the sentence of this court that you pay a fine of $1 or be imprisoned in the county jail at this place for the period of thirty days.”
By thus putting the money at a minimum and the time at a maximum the officials made sure that they had got rid of the now troublesome “suspect” and got a dollar besides. But once more they reckoned wrong. With the air of a Hampden defyin’ a Charles I, or any other tyrant, with the demeanor of an innocent martyr surrenderin’ his liberty for the right, the “suspect” refused to shell out his dollar, and asked to be led to jail, absolutely clamorin’ to be confined.
This was somethin’ terrible. What on earth was to be done? The squire looked at the constables, the constables looked at the squire, and Tom Kinsella, looking at ‘em all three, burst into an involuntary fit of laughter. He couldn’t help it, the poor officials looked so comically bothered.
The laugh did what perhaps just then nothin’ else could have done. It cut the Gordian knot of misunderstandin’ and brought about an explanation. And half an hour later the peculiar spectacle was presented of a judge drinkin’ with an individual whom he had just sentenced, and of the two constables hobnobbin’ with a fellow whom they had just arrested, while the obdurate culprit who preferred confinement to a fine was spendin’ his money liberally on the very men to whom he had just refused to pay a dollar.
Durin’ the night the judge told Tom in confidence that just before he burst out laughin’ he was on the point of offerin’ to pay him a dollar out of his own pocket if he would leave the place. Tom Kinsella wrote up Hempstead, but at the earnest request of the officials there he let down on the squire and the constables as easy as he could, and said very little about the Hempstead jail.
[Editor’s notes: Thomas Kinsella (1832-1884) was the editor of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle for many years, and also a United States Congressman representing New York’s 2nd District in the early 1870s.]
