“What do you expect to get?” says one.
“Oh, sixty days this crack, nothing less.”
“Been up before?”
“Have I? Humph! The old man’ll spot me as soon as I get into the bull-pen.”
“What kind ov a police magistrate have yez in this blasted town?” asks a boozer from the bench.
They all look at him admiringly, enviously.
“Never up before?”
“Never struck the darn town in my life till last night, and betcher life I’ll git outen it, too, as soon as I git out o’ jail.”
“You’ll git off on yer fust offence,” chorus the rest, and they look upon him as a company of paupers would look on one of their number who had been left a legacy. By this time the sun fills the streets, the tide of life roars past, and the group of wretches await the peal in St. James’ steeple announcing a quarter to ten.