My companion and I had not traveled far into the South before we discovered that our comfort was likely to be considerably enhanced if, in hotels, we singled out an intelligent bell boy and, as far as possible, let this one boy serve us. Our mainstay in the Jefferson Hotel was Charles Jackson, No. 144, or, when Charles was "off," his "side partner," whom we knew as Bob. Having one day noticed a negro in convict's stripes, but without a guard, raking up leaves in Capitol Square, I asked Charles about the matter. "Do they let the convicts go around unguarded?" I inquired. "They 's some of 'em can," said he. "Those is trustees." This talk of "trustees" led to other things and finally to a strong recommendation, by Charles, of the Richmond Police Court, as a place of entertainment. "Is it interesting?" I asked. "Inter-_resting_? Yes, _suh_! Judge Crutchfield he suttinly _is_. He done chahge me twenty-six dollahs and fo'ty cents. My brothah, he got in fight down street, heah. Some niggers set on him. I went to he'p him an' p'leeceman got me. He say I was resistin' p'leece. I ain't resisted no p'leece! No, _suh_! Not _me_! But Judge Crutchfield, you can't tell him nothin'. 'Tain't no use to have a lawyer, nuther. Judge Crutchfield don't want no lawyers in his co't. Like 's not he cha'ge you _mo'_ fo' _havin'_ lawyer. Then you got pay lawyer, too. "Friend mine name Billy. One night Billy he wake up and heah some one come pushin' in his house. He hollah: 'Who thar?' "Othah nigger he kep' pushin' on in. He say: 'This Gawge.' "Billy, he say: 'Git on out heah, niggah! Ain't no Gawge live heah!' "Othah niggah, he say: 'Don't make no diff'unce Gawge live heah o' not. He sure comin' right in! Ain't nobody heah kin stop ol' Gawge! He eat 'em alive, Gawge do! He de boss of Jackson Ward. Bettah say yo' prayehs, niggah, fo' yo' time--has--come!' "Billy he don't want hit nobody, but this-heah Gawge he drunk, an' Billy _have_ t' hit 'im. Well, suh, what you think this Gawge done? He go have Billy 'rested. _Yes_, suh! But you can't tell Judge Crutchfield nothin'. Next mo'nin' in p'leece co't he say to Billy: 'I fine you twenty-five dollahs, fo' hittin' this old gray-haihed man.' Yes, _suh_! 'at 's a way Judge Crutchfield is. Can't tell _him_ nothin'. He jes' set up theh on de bench, an' he chaw tobacco, an' he heah de cases, an' he spit, an' evvy time he spit he spit a fine. Yes, _suh_! He spit like dis: 'Pfst! Five dollahs!'--'Pfst! Ten dollahs!'--'Pfst! Fifteen dollahs!'--just how he feel. He suttinly is some judge, 'at man." Encouraged by this account of police court justice as meted out to the Richmond negro, my companion and I did visit Justice Crutchfield's court.