tell the truth), and, after moving about, and walking up and down in
the narrow space as well as we can, he "rings up" another policeman,
who happens to be the fat one who is to be in charge all night.

"Wot's up here?"

"What have I been up to?"

"Killin' a Chinaman. Go to sleep."

Policeman peers in at me inquiringly, but I forbear to ask questions.

Blankets are thrown in by a friend of mine in the force, though we
are not entitled to them until we are bailed or removed to the
"paddock" (the big drunks' dormitory and dining cell at the
Central), and we proceed to make ourselves comfortable. My mate
wonders whether he asked them to send to his wife to get bail, and
hopes he didn't.

They have left our wicket open, seeing, or rather hearing, that we are
quiet. But they have seemingly left some other wickets open also, for
from a neighbouring cell comes the voice of Mrs Johnson holding forth.
The locomotive has apparently just been run into the cleaning sheds,
and her fires have not had time to cool. They say that Mrs Johnson
was a "lady once," like many of her kind; that she is not a "bad
woman"--that is, not a woman of loose character--but gets money sent
to her from somewhere--from her "family," or her husband, perhaps.
But when she lets herself loose--or, rather, when the beer lets her
loose--she is a tornado and a terror in Red Rock Lane, and it is only
her fierce, practical kindness to her unfortunate or poverty-stricken