When the jury said “Guilty,” it filled Ellison with resentful amazement. His angry wonder grew as the judge coldly mentioned that “from eight to-twenty years.” He couldn't understand! The politicians had promised to save him. It was only upon such assurance that he had concluded to return. Safe in Baltimore, he could have safely continued in Baltimore. Lured by false lights, misled by spurious promises, he had come back to get “from eight to twenty years!” Cray and Savage rounded him up. All his life a cop-fighter, he would have given those Central Office stars a battle, had he realized what was in store for him and how like a rope of sand were the promises of politicians! My own introduction to Ellison and Razor Riley was in the Jefferson Market court. That was several years ago. The day was the eighteenth of March, and Magistrate Corrigan had invited me to a seat on the bench. Ellison and Razor were arraigned for disorderly conduct. They had pushed in the door of a Sixth Avenue bird and animal store, kept by an agitated Italian, and in the language of the officer who made the collar, “didn't do a thing to it.” “They are guilty, your honor,” said their lawyer, manner deprecatory and full of conciliation, with a view to softening the magisterial heart--“they are guilty. And yet there is this in their defense. They had been celebrating Saint Patrick's Day, over-celebrating it, perhaps, your honor, and they didn't know what they were about. That's the mere truth, your honor. Befuddled by too much and too fervently celebrating the glorious day, they really didn't know what they were about.” The lawyer waved a virtuous hand, as one who submitted affairs to the mercy of an enlightened court. Magistrate Corrigan was about to impose sentence, when the agitated Italian broke forth. “Don't I get-a my chance, judge?” he called out. “Certainly,” returned Magistrate Corrigan, “what is it you want to say?” “Judge, that-a guy”--pointing the finger of rebuttal at the lawyer--“he say theese mans don't know what-a they do. One lie! They know what-a they do all right. I show you, judge. They smash-a th' canaries, they knock-a th' blocks off-a th' monks, they tear-a th' tails out of th' macaws, but”--here his voice rose to a screech--“they nevair touch-a th' bear.” Magistrate Corrigan glanced at the policeman. The latter explained that, while Ellison and Razor had spread wreck and havoc among the monkeys and macaws, they had avoided even a remotest entanglement with a huge cinnamon bear, chained in the center of the room. They had prudently plowed 'round the bear. “Twenty-five and costs!” said Magistrate Corrigan, a smile touching the corners of his mouth. Then, raising a repressive palm towards the lawyer, who betrayed symptoms of further oratory: “Not a word. Your people get off very lightly. Upon the point you urge that these men didn't know what they were about, the testimony of our Italian friend is highly convincing.”