“The man on the other side.” “Very well.” Then there is an expectant lull. It is EIGHT SECONDS TO TEN. As soon as the last second is buried in the grave of time that side door will open and the Magistrate will come in. The bells in St. James’ steeple go “kling, ling, ling”—there, didn’t I tell you. The side door swings suddenly open and to sharp cries of “Order! Order!” a tall, handsome military man with iron gray hair and moustache and dressed chiefly in a frock coat, the tails of which are flying behind him, darts into the room and with three long dragoon-like strides is in his seat. He fires a little battery of nods all round and the deputy steps up to swear to the informations. Then he whispers with the deputy a moment and smiles. Then he leans over and whispers with the clerk and laughs noiselessly, then he clears his throat, surveys the court room with the eagle glance of a veteran reviewing a troop of hussars, and finally consults the docket before him. He looks up sharply at the two wretches standing in the dock and asks which is John Smith. John is terribly sober, red-eyed, and befrousled. “John Smith, you are charged with being drunk on ⸺ street on the ⸺ of May. Were you drunk?” “Yer ’anner, I was afther going down to ⸺.” “Were you drunk!” “⸺goin’ down to McBoasts, pwhin who shud I⸺.” “Were you drunk!!” “⸺phwin who shud I meet bud⸺” “Were you drunk!!!” “⸺bud ould Mullin’s son, and sez he to me, John, sez he⸺.” “Were—you—drunk?” “I was, faith.” “Why didn’t you tell me that at once?” “I was tellin’ ye all the time, yer anner, bud⸺” “Were you ever up before?” “Och, ax me no kushtions—sure you know right well oi was.” “Fined $1 and costs or thirty days in jail. Reuben Robertson—is your name Reuben Robertson?” “It is, sir.” “You are charged here with being drunk last night. Is that so?” “It is not, sir.” “Who arrested this man?” queries the magistrate. “I did, sir,” says a policeman promptly. He steps into the witness stand, lifts his helmet, is sworn, drops his helmet on his head again, and faces the prisoner. “Was this man drunk as charged?” “He was, your Worship. He was so drunk that I had to get a handcart to bring him to the station in.” “Do you hear that?” “Yes, sir.” “Were you ever here before?” “No, sir, and if you’ll let me off this time, I’ll leave the city.” “Discharged!” and Reuben makes a bee-line for the door. The French adopted the hat at one time as A TOKEN OF LIBERTY. They were judges of human nature. The first impulse of a prisoner discharged in that police court is to clap on his cap. More drunks follow. The old, old story. One man is charged with being disorderly as well as drunk. “He struck me and tore me coat,” says the constable who arrested him. “Yes,” pipes up the inspector, “and in the station below he was very obstreperous.” “Fined $5 and costs or sixty days.”