Jailbird

by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

It turned out that he had been telling stories all morning in court, too. The judge was fascinated, and almost everybody else in court was, too—presumably by such unselfish high adventures. The judge had encouraged Hapgood, I gathered, to go on and on. Labor history was pornography of a sort in those days, and even more so in these days. In public schools and in the homes of nice people it was and remains pretty much taboo to tell tales of labor’s sufferings and derring-do. I remember the name of the judge. It was Claycomb. I am able to remember it so easily because I had been a high-school classmate of the judge’s son, “Moon.” Moon Claycomb’s father, according to Powers Hapgood, asked him this final question just before lunch: “Mr. Hapgood,” he said, “why would a man from such a distinguished family and with such a fine education choose to live as you do?” “Why?” said Hapgood, according to Hapgood. “Because of the Sermon on the Mount, sir.”