The next two or three cases were concerned with the question of paternity, and in each instance the plaintive lady received the consolation of eighteen-pence a week for a period of years. Then followed a charge of assault. One lady had beaten another with an implement remotely resembling a carpenter’s stool. On each side there were many witnesses and, apparently, many liars. One coquette in a West Indian gown of yellow, green, blue, and pink, ventured to repeat to the court some of the vulgar abuse which, in her opinion, contributed to, and completely justified, the assault referred to. Hers was an eloquent and ingenious pleading. First, she swore before God and Heaven that the assault was not an assault at all, “Ester did not lay a finger on the woman”; then she justified the assault in language which stirred even the lethargic magistrate. “Such language will do your friend no good; it only serves to show that you are a low abandoned woman"--he ventured to remark in a low, even monotone. “So’s she, she is low and abandoned too; she is ... and she said".... The woman was on her metal, and desired above all things to incriminate the enemy of her friend. In the end someone was fined eight shillings and costs. Who it was I never knew; but my impression is that it was either a witness or the police constable. Two young and innocent-looking boys were charged by a one-legged baker with stealing a loaf, value one penny. The baker was evidently a man of parts, one of which was religion. He kissed the book with a vivacious reverence and commenced, “Your Honour and gentlemen:--Them two boys Simon Fogarty and Thomas Smiff was in my bakery on the pretence of executing a purchase. I ask them to lift a board in order that I may take up bread enough to supply them. They become impertinent. I rebuke them. They only laugh and say I too much fool. I again rebuke them, and then I get over the counter in order to chastise them. They fly; but I seize one, Simon [Illustration: A NEGRO NURSE WITH CHINESE CHILDREN, JAMAICA] Fogarty, and he struggle so hard that I oblige to call in the aid of Constable Perkin, who shall come before your Honour and say I speak the truth only. When I go back to my shop I find that one loaf had gone. I run into the street and see Thomas Smiff with my loaf to his lips. I call witness to see him also, and they tell you how the wicked boy, who is the pest of the street, eat my loaf for which I receive no payment.” The police constable confirmed the baker’s statement, and the magistrate looked bored to extinction. It is just the police court in which that ancient suburban drama “Black justice” might be performed with propriety. In spite of the eloquence of the baker and the accurate testimony of the police constable, those boys might have been let off with a caution; but, just as justice was looking its weakest, the police inspector rose, and, placing one hand gracefully upon the summit of his helmet, addressed the court.