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.