ut by the lists, marshal us up in
the passage and draft us into court. Ladies first. But I forgot that I
am out on bail, and that the foregoing belongs to another occasion. Or
was it only imagination, or hearsay? Journalists have got themselves
run in before now, in order to see and hear and feel and smell for
themselves--and write.

"Silence! Order in the Court." I come like a shot out of my nightmare,
or trance, or what you will, and we all rise as the magistrate takes his
seat. None of us noticed him come in, but he's there, and I've a quaint
idea that he bowed to his audience. Kindly, humorous Mr Isaacs, whom
we have lost, always gave me that idea. And, while he looks over his
papers, the women seem to group themselves, unconsciously as it were,
with Mrs Johnson as front centre, as though they depended on her in some
vague way. She has slept it off and tidied, or been tidied, up, and
is as clear-headed as she ever will be. Crouching directly behind her,
supported and comforted on one side by One-Eyed Kate, and on the other
by Cock-Eyed Sal, is the poor bedraggled little resister of the Law,
sobbing convulsively, her breasts and thin shoulders heaving and shaking
under her openwork blouse--the girl who seemed to pity Jesus of Nazareth
last night in her cell. There's very little inciting to resist about her
now. Most women can cry when they like, I know, and many have cried men
to jail and the gallows; but here in this place, if a woman's tears
can avail her anything, who, save perhaps a police-court solicitor and
gentleman-by-Act-of-Parliament, would, or dare, raise a sneer.

I wonder what the Nazarene would have to say about it if He came in to
speak for her. But probably they'd send Him to the receiving house as a
person of unsound mind, or give Him worse punishment for drunkenness and
contempt of court.

His Worship looks up.

Mrs Johnson (from the dock): "Good morning, Mr Isaacs. How do you do?
You're looking very well this morning, Mr Isaacs."

His Worship (from the Bench): "Thank you, Mrs Johnson. I'm feeling very
well this, morning."

There's a pause, but there is no "laughter." The would-be satellites
don't know whom the laugh might be against. His Worship bends over the
papers again, and I can see that he is having trouble with that quaintly
humorous and kindly smile, or grin, of his. He has as hard a job to
control his smile and get it off his face as some magistrates have to
get a smile on to thei