Judge--Prisoners, step to the bar. You are charged with, etc., ad
lib. What have you to say before sentence is passed upon you?

Prisoners--Not a blamed word.

Judge--I find the prisoners guilty and sentence them to pay a fine
of $50, or ten days in the city prison.

Prisoners--Gee, you must be going to build a new courthouse.

Judge--Five dollars for kidding the court.

"I knew those fellows couldn't stand the strain of the $55 fine, so,
turning my back in maidenly modesty to the court, I dug down in the
lisle-thread bank and came up with a hundred dollar bill, the first one
ever seen in Emporia. I tossed it carelessly on the desk, remarking,
'Take it out of that.' You could have knocked the court's eyes off with
a club. I don't think he ever saw that much money in one group before in
his life. The clerk of the court grabbed the fresh-air fund and did a
rubber into the family safe for the change. All quiet along the Potomac.
The whole blooming city didn't have change for a century note. Can you
beat that? And they say there is no graft in Kansas. They had to go over
to the speakeasy for a change. What do you know about that? A court of a
Prohibition State going to a gin-mill for money.

"After we got through telling the court what he reminded us of and what
he looked like, we tripped out to the machine and climbed on board and
started out again. We rode around until 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning,
and I got to bed just as the help was getting out to do the chores.