usually described in the head-line, as "A 'Armless Case," by one of
our great dailies.) And their pals are waiting outside in the
vestibule--Frowsy Kate (The Red Streak), Boko Bill, Pincher and his
"piece," etc., getting together the stuff for the possible fines, and
the ten-bob fee for the lawyer, in one case, and ready to swear to
anything, if called upon. And I myself--though I have not yet entered
Red Rock Lane Society--on bail, on a charge of "plain drunk." It
was "drunk and disorderly" by the way, but a kindly sergeant changed
it to plain drunk (though I always thought my drunk was ornamental).

Yet I am not ashamed--only comfortably dulled and a little
tired--dully interested and observant, and hopeful for the sunlight
presently. We low persons get too great a contempt for things to feel
much ashamed at any time; and this very contempt keeps many of us from
"reforming." We hear too many lies sworn that we know to be lies,
and see too many unjust and brutal things done that we know to be
brutal and unjust.

But let us go back a bit, and suppose we are still waiting for the
magistrate, and think of Last Night. "Silence!"--but from no human
voice this time. The whispering, shuffling, and clicking of the court
typewriter ceases, the scene darkens, and the court is blotted out as
a scene is blotted out from the sight of a man who has thrown himself
into a mesmeric trance. And:

Drink--lurid recollection of being "searched"---clang of iron cell
door, and I grope for and crawl on to the slanting plank. Period of
oblivion--or the soul is away in some other world. Clang of cell
door again, and soul returns in a hurry to take heed of another soul,
belonging to a belated drunk on the plank by my side. Other soul