Warburton climbed in, his face red with shame and anger. He tied his handkerchief around his chin and tilted his hat far down over his eyes.
"'Fraid of meetin' some of yer swell friends, hey? Ten t' one, yer a swell an' was runnin' away with th' wrong woman. Mind, I have an eye on ye."
The patrol rumbled over the asphalt on the way down-town. Warburton buried his face in his hands. Several times they passed a cigar-store, and his mouth watered for a good cigar, the taste of a clear Havana.
He entered the police-court, not lacking in curiosity. It was his first experience with this arm of the civil law. He wasn't sure that he liked it. It wasn't an inviting place with its bare benches and its motley, tawdry throng. He was plumped into a seat between some ladies of irregular habits, and the stale odor of intoxicants, mingling with cheap perfumery, took away the edge of his curiosity.
"Hello, pretty boy; jag?" asked one of these faded beauties, in an undertone. She nudged him with her elbow.
"No, sweetheart," he replied, smiling in spite of himself.
"Ah gowan! Been pinching some one's wad?"
"Nope!"
"What are you here for, then?"
"Having a good time without anybody's consent. If you will listen, you will soon hear all about it."