“Oh, the way they always do. He got the best of me because I was innocent, an’ he promised to marry me. When he was tired of me he walked out, an’ I’ve never seen him since.”
“Where do you expect to find him?”
“Here in this city; I’d know his skin on a bush, an’ I’ll find him or die.”
“Well, you had better take a rest for tonight.”
The woman goes off to her hard bed in the lodging room, and the office is silent again; but only for a short while. The door opens again, and this time with a crash, and an officer enters, with a prisoner in his vice-like grasp. The man’s coat is pulled over his head, his hat is gone, the blood is running from his nose, and his gait so unsteady that he would certainly fall to the floor but for the firm hold of the policeman. His shirt front is covered with blood and beer, and his eyes are bruised and bloodshot.
“Well, officer, what is it?” asks the sergeant, taking up his pen, as the patrolman drags his prisoner to his desk.
“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” replied the patrolman. “Wanted to fight everybody he met on the street. He got pretty badly damaged in being put out of Schlosheimer’s saloon, and I had to take him in charge.”
“What is your name, and where do you live?” asked the sergeant of the prisoner.
The man gives his name and address, in a sort of incoherent manner, and is sent back to a cell, while the sergeant jots down the circumstances of his arrest in his “Blotter.”