them when they were run in. We low people can be very kind to each
other in trouble. But now it's time to call us out by the lists,
marshal us up in the passage and draft us into court. Ladies first.
But I forgot that I am out on bail, and that the foregoing belongs to
another occasion. Or was it only imagination, or hearsay?
Journalists have got themselves run in before now, in order to see and
hear and feel and smell for themselves--and write.


"Silence! Order in the Court." I come like a shot out of my
nightmare, or trance, or what you will, and we all rise as the
magistrate takes his seat. None of us noticed him come in, but he's
there, and I've a quaint idea that he bowed to his audience. Kindly,
humorous Mr Isaacs, whom we have lost, always gave me that idea. And,
while he looks over his papers, the women seem to group themselves,
unconsciously as it were, with Mrs Johnson as front centre, as though
they depended on her in some vague way. She has slept it off and
tidied, or been tidied, up, and is as clear-headed as she ever will
be. Crouching directly behind her, supported and comforted on one
side by One-Eyed Kate, and on the other by Cock-Eyed Sal, is the poor
bedraggled little resister of the Law, sobbing convulsively, her
breasts and thin shoulders heaving and shaking under her openwork
blouse--the girl who seemed to pity Jesus of Nazareth last night in
her cell. There's very little inciting to resist about her now. Most
women can cry when they like, I know, and many have cried men to jail
and the gallows; but here in this place, if a woman's tears can avail
her anything, who, save perhaps a police-court solicitor and
gentleman-by-Act-of-Parliament, would, or dare, raise a sneer.

I wonder what the Nazarene would have to say about it if He came in