This is the first time most of the women have ever seen a police station, and they are interested in, their surroundings. They are not interested in helping the panting policeman count them over and identify them. Who arrested whom? That becomes the gigantic question. “Will the ladies please tell which officer arrested them?” They will not. They do not intend to be a party to this outrage. Finally the officers abandon their attempt at identification. They have the names of the arrestees and will accept bail for their appearance Monday. “Well girls, I’ve never seen but one other court in my life and that was the Court of St. James. But I must say they are not very much alike,” was the cheery comment of Mrs. Florence Bayard Hilles,[1] as we entered the court room on Monday. [1] Mrs. Hilles is the daughter of the late Thomas Bayard, formerly America’s ambassador to Great Britain, and Secretary of State in President Cleveland’s cabinet. The stuffy court room is packed to overflowing. The fat, one-eyed bailiff is perspiring to no purpose. He cannot make the throng “sit down.” In fact every one who has anything to do with the pickets perspires to no purpose. Judge Mullowny takes his seat, looking at once grotesque and menacing on his red throne. “Silence in the court room,” from the sinister-eyed bailiff. And a silence. follows so heavy that it can be heard. Saturday night’s both black and white—are tried first. The suffrage prisoners strain their ears to hear the pitiful pleas of these unfortunates, most of whom come to the bar without counsel or friend. Scraps of evidence are heard. JUDGE: “You say you were not quarreling, Lottie?” LOTTIE: “I sho’ do yo’ hono’. We wuz jes singin’—we wuz sho’ nuf, sah.” JUDGE: “Singing, Lottie? Why your neighbors here testify to the fact that you were making a great deal of noise—so much that they could not sleep.” LOTTIE: “I tells yo’ honor’ we wuz jes singin’ lak we allays do.” JUDGE : “What were you singing?” LOTTIE: “Why, hymns, sah.” The judge smiles cynically. A neatly-attired white man with a wizened face again takes the stand against Lottie. Hymns or no hymns he could not sleep. The judge pronounces a sentence of “six months in the workhouse,” for Lottie. And so it goes on. The suffrage prisoners are the main business of the morning. Sixteen women come inside the railing which separates “tried” from “untried” and take their seats. “Do the ladies wish the government to provide them with counsel?” They do not. “We shall speak in our own behalf. We feel that we can best represent ourselves,” we announce. Miss Anne Martin and I act as attorneys for the group. The same panting policemen who could not identify the people they had arrested give their stereotyped, false and illiterate testimony. The judge helps them over the hard places and so does the government’s attorney. They stumble to an embarrassed finish and retire.