He was one of the most popular figures in Manchester, and the mob, who always take the side of the unfortunate nobleman in the dock, called him in their good-natured adoration “The People’s Charley.” When he defended a cabman at the police court who had got into some trouble with the authorities over hackney coach bye-laws and defeated the police, the cabmen of St. Anne’s Square cheered him as he drove his phæton down to court with his bull-dog by his side, and held a mass meeting and sent a deputation to his chambers to present him with a handsome gold-mounted malacca.
It was about this time that he was pressed to stand for municipal honours. Certainly no Nonconformist conscience could have stood a chance against “The People’s Charley.” He greatly enjoyed the first invitation he received. A few of the inner circle of the politicians of a certain ward came to visit and ask him to stand as a Conservative candidate at the next municipal election.
“But I heard Mr. X. was going to stand,” said McKeand, naming a very respectable citizen.
“Nay, Mr. McKeand,” said the spokesman, dwelling lovingly on three syllables of his name. “Nay, Mr. McKeand, we don’t want Mr. X., we wants you. Mr. X. ain’t anything to the likes o’ us. You know our ward, Mr. McKeand. It’s full of bookmakers and thieves and rat-catchers――you knows the sort and they knows you――and they’ll vote for you like one man.”
However, McKeand had no ambition for a seat on the City Council and stuck to his work in court, of which he was really fond.
His readiness and resource were extraordinary and he said and did the most startling things without offending the most straight-laced judicial persons. Hopwood was presiding in a third court at the assizes, trying some of the minor prisoners. An old woman indicted for larceny had given McKeand a dock defence, and he rushed in at the last moment to make a speech on her behalf. It was clear he had not had time to study the depositions, but a few words from Ernest Jordan, who was devilling the case, put him on the right line, and he was soon in the middle of an eloquent harangue. Coming to the end of it he exclaimed, “And what, gentlemen, did the poor woman say when the magistrate’s clerk asked her for her defence. I will read you her very words, and I think you will agree with me that they bear the stamp of conscious innocence.” Ernest Jordan tried to stem the torrent of his eloquence here, feeling sure he was remembering another set of depositions, but it was no use. McKeand seized the papers and turned them rapidly over. “Let me read you her exact words. Ha! Here we are. Oh! H’m!” He faltered a little when he saw them. “Well, gentlemen, this uneducated woman does not put it as you or I would put it, but I said I would read her words, and I will. What she says is: ‘How the hell could I have the ―――― boots when he was wearing them?’ And, gentlemen,” continued McKeand in a concluding burst of eloquence, “I ask you, with some confidence, how the hell could she?”