A QUEER SIGHT.
A woman was crouching on the floor in her nightdress. Her face was swollen and bleeding, and there was a cut on her head. Her white garment was spotted with blood, and she was groaning with pain. In the corner stood her husband, a big, ugly fellow half dressed.
“What are you killing your wife for, Bill?” says I, “You’ll have to come with me.”
“I never struck her,” says he.
“Indeed that’s true, sir,” said the woman, “I fell down the cellar stairs in the dark.”
“But I heard you yelling murder outside.”
“Sir, you must have been mistaken, I never cried murder. Did I, Bill. ’Pon my word, sor, it was by falling down the stairs I got hurt.”
“‘Show me the stairs,’ says I, and would you believe it, there isn’t a cellar in the place, nor stairs neither!”
“Did you arrest him?”
“Naw! where would be the use? She would come up in the morning and swear a hole through a brick wall that he never put a hand on her, and where would I be?—I’d look like a fool, and I would be reprimanded for bringing a case like that into court. Yes, I left them there, and as I was goin’ out, what do you think but the fellow followed me and threatened to have me before the commissioners for breaking in his door. There are lots of scenes like that, lots of ’em. Why I have heard the devil’s own ruction going on in a house, and when I went in there they were all sitting among a lot of broken furniture, as mum as mice and ready to swear that they hadn’t opened their mouths to speak for twenty-four hours.”
“What about burglars?”
“I have had some queer experiences. Ha! ha! One moonlight night I was pacing on my beat, when I saw a dark figure leap over a fence that surrounded the handsome premises of a wealthy lawyer. I went to the fence and looked over, but it was dark on the terrace and I could see nothing. In a few minutes, however, I saw