A TOKEN OF LIBERTY.
They were judges of human nature. The first impulse of a prisoner discharged in that police court is to clap on his cap. More drunks follow. The old, old story. One man is charged with being disorderly as well as drunk.
“He struck me and tore me coat,” says the constable who arrested him.
“Yes,” pipes up the inspector, “and in the station below he was very obstreperous.”
“Fined $5 and costs or sixty days.”
Then the wife-beater takes his place in the dock. A low-browed, bull-headed, thick-lipped ruffian with bloodshot eyes. He leans his arms on the rail and gazes round him with a sulky air. His wife creeps reluctantly into the witness box—she keeps her face averted; she cannot trust herself to look at her husband. He pleads not guilty. “She tripped on the rug and fell against the table, yer Worship.”
“Is this true?”
“It is not, your Worship,” says the poor woman. “He—he struck me with his fist,” and here she breaks down and sobs hysterically.
“Do you hear what she says?” queries the magistrate.
“She’s lyin to you, sir.”
“I would rather believe her than you,” says the Magistrate, “I fancy a term in jail—or, say Central prison, would do you good.”
“Oh, don’t send him to jail, sir,” cries the poor woman; “don’t send him to jail.”
“But he will only beat you again.”
“Yes, I know, sir; but then the children—the children; where could they get bread and him in the jail, sir?”
It is enough. The man in the dock winces like one who is stabbed. A thrill runs through the court. The man is discharged.
The youth accused of burglary is led in. He is sullen, defiant, but uneasy withal. The detectives are not ready to go on with his case, and he is remanded. The father makes an ineffectual appeal for bail, and then goes home—home, ah! This furnishes the criminal docket!
An abusive language case comes up. Mrs. Drake is charged by Mrs. Gosling with the offence. Mrs. Gosling is a sharp-featured lady in an old-fashioned bonnet and a tired shawl. Mrs. Drake is the woman with the wet lips, the moist eye and the baby.
“Now,” queries the Magistrate good naturedly, “what is this all about.”
“Your Worship,” says Mrs. Drake, “she called me a dirty scut.”
“Oh, listen till her! listen till her!” shrieks Mrs. Gosling, raising her hands and eyes, “how can you tell a lie like that and you on your oat?”
“What is a scut,” queries the Magistrate.
“Oh, Your Worship, I wouldn’t shame myself by using such a word.”
“I never called her a scut!” screams Mrs. Gosling, “I never did. She sed I wasn’t married to me man.”
“Neither ye are.”
“Oh, ye lyin’ hussy, how dar you stand there and—”
“Come, come,” says the Magistrate, and with the aid of the police both women are quieted down and after much trouble all the witnesses are heard and Mrs. Gosling is fined $1 and costs. Shortly after eleven, however, all the cases are disposed of, the crowd disappears, the reporters rush off to their offices and the room is locked up until the next day at ten.
CHAPTER XIII.
PROMENADING THE STREETS.
This is Yonge street at 10.30 on a Thursday night. I will take up my stand in the shadow of this corner and watch the crowds roll by. What a moving mass of young folks, for the overwhelming majority are young folks. Some of them too young. It is after ten, and yet this bunch of juveniles moving south are not going home, judging by what I observed while I was walking, for I have been as far north as Elm street. I wouldn’t be surprised if those two very immature maidens in the kilted skirts passed up and down two or three times yet. I have some difficulty in recognizing them, for there are 100 girls on the street who appear to have been got up on the same model. There may be slight differences of dress not discernible by the average male eye, but in essentials this seems to be a distinctive class. For the most part the other loungers on the street take it easy—walk slowly and languidly, but this tribe of whom I speak are in couples, and they walk along with a fine, graceful, swinging gait that carries them swiftly forward. None of them are out of their teens. Their dress is not loud. The colors are subdued, and the style of the Kate Greenaway order. The skirt is short, and enables a curious on-looker to decide the color and