Rose Garden Court had little trouble with the police, although the court--especially the feminine portion of it--looked somewhat askance at the force. All a policeman asked of a drunken dweller in the court was, that if he wanted to fight he should fight in the court, and not on a busy thoroughfare like Light Street. In the court the wives of the combatants usually took charge of them before the battle had been fought to a finish, and sometimes a tall policeman watched over the separation of temporary foes, saying little unless one of the fighters resisted the wife who was vociferously shoving him towards his own doorway, when the officer would say: “Come now, my man, none of that,” whereupon, strangely enough, it was the woman who resented the officer’s interference for her protection, though when her man proceeded to abuse a member of the force also, she quickly told him to “shut his ------ mouth,” using an adjective that was at once sanguinary and descriptive. Often a stalwart policeman would take by the scruff of the neck an inhabitant of the court staggering along Light Street, filling the air with melody or defiance, and walk him rapidly down the street, the man’s legs wobbling about uncertainly, as if he were a waxwork automaton, until they were opposite the entrance of the court; then, having received the required impetus from the officer, the man shot under the archway and was presumably taken care of when he got inside: anyhow, once in the court he could not get out again except by the way he entered, and few ever became drunk enough to forget there was always a policeman in the neighbourhood. The thrust under the archway was merely the kindly Light Street way of doing the Piccadilly act of placing a man tenderly in a cab and telling the driver where to go. Few were ever actually arrested in the Light Street district, and their conduct had to be particularly flagrant to bring upon them this last resort of the force. Along Light Street came Marsten, with the elastic springy energetic step of a young man in good health, who takes this world seriously and believes there is something to be done in it. He paused for a moment opposite the “Rose and Crown,” and nodded to some men who were lounging there. “Are you going to the meeting to-night, men?” he asked. One shook his head, another shrugged his shoulders; it was evident at a glance that none of them had any interest in the meeting while the “pub” remained open. “It’s important,” said Marsten. “The committee reports to-night, and ‘strike or no strike’ will likely be put to vote. You are not in favor of a strike, surely? Then come along and vote against it.” “I dunno’ ’bout that,” said one, removing his pipe. “Strike pay is as good as master’s pay, an’ less work to get it. I could do with a bit of an ’oliday.” “Strike pay may be as good as master’s while it lasts, but it won’t last,” rejoined Marsten.