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Federal Court No.2

    George classified his fellows as more or less "nifty".  The "niftier" led, while those who were more  the "nifty-challenged", as I guess it might be put today, well, they just naturally sort of ... followed.  An early episode in George's life, illustrates niftiness at its best... 

    'Tis a hot summer's day  in Washington, D.C. many years ago.  George Rhine, young and penniless has  just arrived in town.  Prospects are not promising - but he is light-hearted nonetheless and confident.  He decides upon a stroll down the street...  He has many ducks to get in a row before dark this day.

      Soon, he finds that he is walking one side of a Square, where the streets come in and intersect with a small park at the center.  At least it might be called a "Square" back in New England, but here in Washington such formations are locally called "Courts" he  was to inform me many years later.  As he strolls on, he notes a street sign: "Federal Court".  He has come to Federal Court.  Almost at the same time, a sign in a window of a brownstone catches his eye: "Room To Let".  It is located in Number 2.  Number 2, Federal Court. 

     Many have passed this way today.  Many have noted these same details.  But only in one mind - a niftier mind - do details come together, meld, sizzle and .... suggest something.  Someway.   A way... perhaps ... to make money! 

     It clicks!

    With a bound he is up the steps of Number 2.  The landlady responds to his knock, and in no time he has contracted for the room - first month's rent due later this afternoon - upon his return.  As he bounds back down the steps, she removes the sign from the window. 

     Now his actions become more purposeful.  An ever-widening perambulation through the streets, with No. 2 Federal Court as a center, takes him to many local merchants and their places of business.  He engages their owners in conversation.  He, George W. Rhine, has established a Collections Agency for delinquent accounts payable, and would like to help these honest burghers recoup their bad debts, skips, no-pays and assorted deadbeats who owe them money.  For a percentage of any recovered monies, he, George W. Rhine, will be glad to see what he can do for them. 

    The percentage to George was the lion's share, of course, but setup costs had been high, fees, licenses, you know that sort of thing...  And, Mr. Merchant, consider the alternative.  Not one red cent ever forthcoming from these drones.  Inevitable court costs, run around, and  many time-consuming efforts should these deadbeat accounts be pursued on their own.  If they could get back a small percentage, even - well... that would really be found money! 

     By mid-afternoon, he has a list of several hundred names and addresses - all prime deadbeats!

    Phase Two.  A small printshop on a back alley.  A few minutes chat with the owners, and it is apparent George  "knows the printing trade" as well as or even better than they.   Permission is granted for him to scrounge  the hellbox.  (A printshop hellbox, let it be known, is an old wooden box under a bench in back somewhere into which "cuts" (engravings) are tossed when they have served their purpose).  George is betting that in such a shop in the heart of Washington he will find a certain kind of abandoned cut... and Bingo! - there it is! 

    Out of the hellbox he draws a still-recognizeable cut of an impressive Government  building.  (Was it perhaps the Mint?  the Smithsonian? maybe even the White House itself?). 

    It  matters not: it was most official-looking - and that served his purpose.  Next, he and the printer pick a typeface, probably a Gothic face I would guess, and George scribbles the copy he wants set:  "Federal Court - Number Two".  The first two words to be set on a bow to the left side of the building's dome, and the next two  words on a bow down to the right. 

    A short time later he returns to check the galley proof: there it is - the pressmen draw it on a nice rag-content bond, rather parchementy and with the ineffable "feel" somehow of officialdom.  The fine grey shades of the engraved government building complement the bold Gothic script across the top: Federal Court.... Number Two.  He okays the print run: 1000 copies please.  He will pick them up in the morning. 

    Phase Three.  All that next day, alone in his rented room at No. 2, George is busy  signing his name, with a flourish, over and over, at the bottom of a most-imposing document....

    The best part, of course, was the signing with a large florid signature...  Then down to the Post Office and his bread was cast upon the waters. 

    He had a good dinner that night and doubtless "a bottle", as the old time authors used to put it.  He retired late and slept soundly.  The following day he "took his ease" and dined well that night, too. Again he slept soundly - but on this, the third morning, he was rudely awakened around 9:00 o'clock by a most obtrusive sound.  It was a Plop! Plop! Plop! sound as numerous fat envelopes were being shoved through the mail slot by the postman... 

    George awoke fully - stretched - then reached for his pocketknife and began to slit open the day's post. 

    Each letter contained cash - greenbacks in full - for the specified amounts owed the hapless creditors.  It had worked!  But after all - why not?  The trick lay in the imposing stationery.  Who could fail to see that "the Law" was on his trail after receiving such an epistle?  Again, as George was wont to point out - the guilty are the easiest to shake down, for they labor under a burden to begin with. 

    Thenceafter, and for some time, till he had mined out this lode, George ran his Collection Agency from Number Two, Federal Court.  He slept soundly each night - and woke each dawn to the sweet sound of Plop! Plop! Plop! as money fell into his waiting hands... 

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