A few words will suffice for the history of Jane Cakebread. Born of humble parents in Hertfordshire, she had some schooling, but not much. After leaving school she went into domestic service, and ultimately became what she called ‘a single-handed parlour-maid.’ To commemorate the sudden death of some connection of the family she lived with, she committed to memory certain chapters of the Bible, the one from Job having to do with the uncertainty of life. While in service someone left her a legacy of £100. That was her undoing, as she did no work again. She seems to have carried the money about with her and wasted it, or got robbed of it. Then began her life of so-called inebriety; the rest is public knowledge. CHAPTER VII RECORD-BREAKERS: KATE HENESSEY Kate was an Irish girl, and there was no beauty about her. I met with her the first day I entered a London police court, and was afraid of her. I met with her many times afterwards, and the fear and disgust wore off. There was nothing of the Cakebread type about her; she loved not the precincts of a police court, and could never take her month philosophically. She would scream like a wild beast, curse the magistrate, and defy the police. Sometimes it required several officers to remove her from the dock to the cells, where her boots, if she happened to be possessed of any, had to be taken from her to prevent the noise she would make. Time after time she came, so we became friendly. In the depth of winter, with very little clothing on her, I have seen her sent to Millbank prison, where I have met her with warm clothing on her discharge. Two days later I have seen her again in the dock with the clothing all torn to rags. Again I have clothed her, and a similar result has followed. I became too familiar with her, for I looked upon her as a matter of course and as one of those for whom there was no hope, as time went on. One morning she was in her usual place, curled up in the corner of the prisoners’ waiting-room, when I merely bade her good-morning, and passing on, turned to speak to a middle-aged man who, by his looks, was possessed of a history, and of whom I shall have something to tell later on. He cursed me, and called me a canting hypocrite. So I promptly left him alone. I had no sooner turned away from him than I heard the sound of a resounding smack, evidently with an open hand, upon someone’s face. Turning round, I saw the fellow who had insulted me, and who, by the way, had held a commission in a crack regiment, lying on the floor, and Kate, with flaming eyes and bristling hair, standing over him. She would have kicked him if she had been in possession of boots, but that morning she was not, so she was proceeding to punch him; she might even have bitten him, but I pulled her away, and she went back to her corner. The man got up muttering curses, and said to me: ‘That’s the effect of your teaching, I reckon.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t think she made a bad job of it.’