While within the railed pen with those other unfortunates whom the dragnets of the police had brought to these mean shores, and in an interval when my fascinated eyes were off the magistrate, I caught sight of Anne and my father. They had seats inside the fence. The latter's face was clouded with simple trouble; he wore his Sunday coat, and his hands, hard and showing the stains of his forge, roved in uneasy alternation from his pockets to his lapels and back again. Anne's young eyes were worn and tired, for she had slept as little as had I and wept much more the night before. I could not discover Apple Cheek, although I looked about the room for her more than once. I had it in my hopes that they had given Apple Cheek her freedom, and the thought was a half-relief. Nothing of such decent sort had come to pass, however; Apple Cheek was waiting with two or three harridans, her comrades of the cells, in an adjoining room. When my name was called, an officer of the court opened a gate in the prisoner's pen and motioned me to come forth. “Hurry up!” said the officer, who was for expedition. “W'at's the trouble with your heels? You aint got no ball an' chain on yet, you know.” Then he gave me a chair in front of the magistrate, where the man of power might run me up and down with his shifty deprecatory eye. “There was a girl brought in with him, your honor,” remarked the officer at the gate. “Have her out, then,” said the magistrate; whereupon Apple Cheek, a bit disheveled and cheeks redder than ever with the tears she had shed, was produced and given a seat by my side. “Who complains of these defendants?” asked the magistrate in a mild non-committal voice, glancing about the room. “I do, your honor.” It was Sheeny Joe who came pushing to the fore from a far corner. His head had received the benefit of several bandages, and it gave me a dullish joy to think it was I to furnish the reason of them. The magistrate appeared to know Sheeny Joe, and to hold him in regard at that. The moment my enemy declared himself as the complainant, and no one springing up to take my part, the magistrate bent upon me a stony glance that spoke plainly of those six months concerning which the turnkey told. I gave up everything, myself and Apple Cheek, as surely lost. “Tell your story,” said the magistrate to Sheeny Joe. His manner was full of commiseration for that unworthy. “What did he assault you with?” “With a blackjack, your honor, or a piece of lead pipe,” replied Sheeny Joe. “He struck me when I wasn't lookin'. I'm busy trying to tell the girl there w'at hotel she wants. He gives it to me over the head from behind; then as I wheels, he smashes me across the nose. I couldn't see with w'at, but it was a bar of some kind, mebby iron, mebby lead. As I goes down, I hears the sketch--the girl, I mean--sing out, 'Kill him!' The girl was eggin' him on, your honor.”