torn garments from the dirty floor and gathered them
about her person as best she could, the crowd jeering all the time. A
pin here and there, furnished by some of the women, enabled her to get
them into a sort of shape and adjustment. Then she tried to explain the
affair to the policeman, but he would not listen.

"Come!" he said, sternly.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, not moving from where she
stood.

"Lock you up," replied the policeman. "So come along."

"What's the matter here?" demanded a tall, strongly-built woman,
pressing forward. She spoke with a foreign accent, and in a tone of
command. The motley crowd, above whom she towered, gave way for her as
she approached. Everything about the woman showed her to be superior in
mind and moral force to the unsightly wretches about her. She had the
fair skin, blue eyes and light hair of her nation. Her features were
strong, but not masculine. You saw in them no trace of coarse sensuality
or vicious indulgence.

"Here's Norah! here's the queen!" shouted a voice from the crowd.

"What's the matter here?" asked the woman as she gained an entrance to
the hovel.

"Going to lock up Pinky Swett," said a ragged little girl who had forced
her way in.

"What for?" demanded the woman, speaking with the air of one in
authority.

"'Cause she wouldn't let old Sal beat Kit half to death," answered the
child.

"Ho! Sal's a devil and Pinky's a fool to meddle with her." Then turning
to the policeman, who still had his hand on the girl, she said,

"What're you goin' to do, John?"

"Goin' to lock her up. She's drunk an' bin a-fightin'."

"You're not goin' to do any such thing."

"I'm not drunk, and it's a lie if anybody says so," broke in Pinky. "I
tried to keep this devil from beating the life out of poor little Kit,
and she pitched into me and tore my clothes off. That's what's the
matter."

The policeman quietly removed his hand from Pinky's shoulder, and
glanced toward the woman named Sal, and stood as if waiting orders.

"Better lock _her_ up," said the "queen," as she had been called. Sal
snarled like a fretted wild beast.

"It's awful, the way she beats poor Kit," chimed in the little girl who
had before spoken against her. "If I was Kit, I'd run away, so I would."

"I'll wring your neck off," growled Sal, in a fierce undertone, making a
dash toward the girl, and swearing frightfully. But the child shrank to
the side of the policeman.

"If