Free An Autobiography of Jack London by Jack London Page A

months. In the end, deciding that he would find better opportunities for work on the Lakes, he had started for Buffalo. Of course he was “broke,” and there he was. That was all.
    â€œThirty days,” said his Honor, and called another hobo’s name.
    Said hobo got up. “Vagrancy, your Honor,” said the bailiff, and his Honor said, “Thirty days.”
    And so it went, fifteen seconds and thirty days to each hobo. The machine of justice was grinding smoothly. Most likely, considering how early it was in the morning, his Honor had not yet had his breakfast and was in a hurry.
    But my American blood was up. Behind me were the many generations of my American ancestry. One of the kinds of liberty those ancestors of mine had fought and died for was the right of trial by jury. This was my heritage, stained sacred by their blood, and it devolved upon me to stand up for it. All right, I threatened to myself; just wait till he gets to me.
    He got to me. My name, whatever it was, was called, and I stood up. The bailiff said, “Vagrancy, your Honor,” and I began to talk. But the judge began talking at the same time, and he said, “Thirty days.” I started to protest, but at that moment his Honor was calling the name of the next hobo on the list. His Honor paused long enough to say to me, “Shut up!” The bailiff forced me to sit down. And the next moment that next hobo had received thirty days and the succeeding hobo was just in process of getting his.
    When we had all been disposed of, thirty days to each stiff, his Honor, just as he was about to dismiss us, suddenly turned to the teamster from Lockport—the one man he had allowed to talk.
    â€œWhy did you quit your job?” his Honor asked.
    Now the teamster had already explained how his job had quit him, and the question took him aback.
    â€œYour Honor,” he began confusedly, “isn’t that a funny question to ask?”
    â€œThirty days more for quitting your job,” said his Honor, and the court was closed. That was the outcome. The teamster got sixty days all together, while the rest of us got thirty days.
    We were taken down below, locked up, and given breakfast. It was a pretty good breakfast, as prison breakfasts go, and it was the best I was to get for a month to come.
    As for me, I was dazed. Here was I, under sentence, after a farce of a trial wherein I was denied not only my right of trial by jury, but my right to plead guilty or not guilty. Another thing my fathers had fought for flashed through my brain—habeas corpus. I’d show them. But when I asked for a lawyer, I was laughed at. Habeas corpus was all right, but of what good was it to me when I could communicate with no one outside the jail? But I’d show them. They couldn’t keep me in jail forever. Just wait till I got out, that was all. I’d make them sit up. I knew something about the law and my own rights, and I’d expose their maladministration of justice. Visions of damage suits and sensational newspaper headlines were dancing before my eyes when the jailers came in and began hustling us out into the main office.
    A policeman snapped a handcuff on my right wrist. (Ah, ha, thought I, a new indignity. Just wait till I get out.) On the left wrist of a negro he snapped the other handcuff of that pair. He was a very tall negro, well past six feet—so tall was he that when we stood side by side his hand lifted mine up a trifle in the manacles. Also, he was the happiest and the raggedest negro I have ever seen.
    We were all handcuffed similarly, in pairs. This accomplished, a bright nickel-steel chain was brought forth, run down through the links of all the handcuffs, and locked at front and rear of the double-line. We were now a chain gang. The command to march was given, and out we went upon the street, guarded by two officers. The tall negro and I had the place of honor. We led the procession.
    After the