settles himself for a sleep. The gambler goes into an open cell and lies down, but I the young man paces the room with clenched hands and fevered heart. And so the weary night wears on, and as the gray morning touches the windows with its cool fingers one by one the drunks rouse themselves from their sleep and shuffle over to the water tap to quench the burning thirst that consumes their throats. Even these wretches can joke in their misery. “That was a surprise party to your stomach, I bet,” says one, as he watches another take his first eager gulp of water, which fairly turns to steam as it goes hissing down his fevered throat. “Wouldn’t a big John Collins go good now, eh?” “Or a brandy and soda, yum, yum!” “Water’s a good thing to wash with,” says another boozer, as he lays down the cup and shakes his head, “but it’s no good to drink, not much.” Then they get sympathetic and friendly. “What do you expect to get?” says one. “Oh, sixty days this crack, nothing less.” “Been up before?” “Have I? Humph! The old man’ll spot me as soon as I get into the bull-pen.” “What kind ov a police magistrate have yez in this blasted town?” asks a boozer from the bench. They all look at him admiringly, enviously. “Never up before?” “Never struck the darn town in my life till last night, and betcher life I’ll git outen it, too, as soon as I git out o’ jail.” “You’ll git off on yer fust offence,” chorus the rest, and they look upon him as a company of paupers would look on one of their number who had been left a legacy. By this time the sun fills the streets, the tide of life roars past, and the group of wretches await the peal in St. James’ steeple announcing a quarter to ten. CHAPTER XII. THE POLICE COURT. My experience as a police court reporter is considerable, and in this sketch I propose to give the readers of THE NEWS a sketch of the Magistrate’s morning levee, in which those of the night who hawks come to grief during the hours of darkness appear to explain their shortcomings. In the first place a description of the surroundings of the Police Court might, and doubtless will, be of interest to those who have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to visit the place and inspect it for themselves. The court room is not unlike court rooms all over the world. There is the raised dais for the presiding magistrate, there is the little pen in front and immediately below it for the clerk of the court. There is the table in front of that for the lawyers, the table for the reporters, the prisoners’ dock facing the magistrate, and the railing through the center of the room to keep back the great unwashed. To the right of and below the magistrate, behind a little screened desk, sits the deputy-chief or the inspector on duty, with the prisoners’ docket before him. And that is about all. The court opens with the regularity of clock-work at ten a.m. precisely, but the doors are unlocked at about half-past nine. Shortly afterwards