“Here they are, and you’d better look out for ’em! Just look at me all chawed up. An awful fight we had!” And surely he looked as if he spoke the truth, for a half dozen dirty men had contributed a dirty handkerchief apiece to tie up his broken head. “Take no chances, or you must run your own risks,” he continued. At this one of the officers went back to the patrol-wagon and returned with handcuffs. “Here, old gal,” he said, “we’re used to sech as you--the worse you are the better we like you! Spit and kick and scratch now all you want, but put on the jewelry just for looks, as it is Sunday morning, you know.” I felt the cold steel close with a snap around my wrists, we were pushed into the wagon, Bilkson climbed on the seat with the driver, and amid a general yell from a party of street gamins we dashed up Exchange street. The bells were ringing, calling worshipers to church. Children dressed out in stiff white dresses, women daintily attired, family groups, we passed on their way to church, and they turned to look with wondering eyes. At Michigan street I saw coming toward us a form I knew full well, the first and only face which I had seen--it seemed for years--which I might truly call friend. It was Martha Heath, walking briskly forward, going I knew to a mission Sunday-school on Perry street, where she taught a class of grinning youngsters. She, too, looked at the patrol-wagon with its motley load, and I saw she did not recognize me. I thought of calling to her, but the restraining influence of the officer’s club, who sat close to me, froze the words on my lips. Still she looked. I held up my hands showing the handcuffs in mute appeal. I saw the books drop from her grasp. Her hand went to her head in dazed manner--she reeled--staggered--and grasped a friendly railing as we whirled by. The driver cracked his whip in the direction of a passing policeman, and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and they both laughed. “What charge?” the officer asked, as we were marched up before the high desk at the station-house. “Make the entry in lead pencil and call it burglary--we may want to change it later. Oh, we’ve got it in for ’em though! Put ’em in the freezer, and mind no one sees ’em, for we want to make ’em confess,” said Woodbur, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. The next morning in the _Daily Times_ was the following item, and the clipping now adorns my scrap book. BEAUTY’S BLOWOUT. A FREE RIDE. HOW ASPASIA HOBBS HOBNOBS WITH CAPTAIN KILBUCK AT NO. 10. Church goers yesterday morning in the vicinity of Main and Exchange streets were treated to the shocking sight of seeing one of Buffalo’s former society belles taking a ride with the genial Jimmy Smith, who received first prize in the recent Times contest as the most popular policeman in Buffalo.