Then the wife-beater takes his place in the dock. A low-browed, bull-headed, thick-lipped ruffian with bloodshot eyes. He leans his arms on the rail and gazes round him with a sulky air. His wife creeps reluctantly into the witness box—she keeps her face averted; she cannot trust herself to look at her husband. He pleads not guilty. “She tripped on the rug and fell against the table, yer Worship.” “Is this true?” “It is not, your Worship,” says the poor woman. “He—he struck me with his fist,” and here she breaks down and sobs hysterically. “Do you hear what she says?” queries the magistrate. “She’s lyin to you, sir.” “I would rather believe her than you,” says the Magistrate, “I fancy a term in jail—or, say Central prison, would do you good.” “Oh, don’t send him to jail, sir,” cries the poor woman; “don’t send him to jail.” “But he will only beat you again.” “Yes, I know, sir; but then the children—the children; where could they get bread and him in the jail, sir?” It is enough. The man in the dock winces like one who is stabbed. A thrill runs through the court. The man is discharged. The youth accused of burglary is led in. He is sullen, defiant, but uneasy withal. The detectives are not ready to go on with his case, and he is remanded. The father makes an ineffectual appeal for bail, and then goes home—home, ah! This furnishes the criminal docket! An abusive language case comes up. Mrs. Drake is charged by Mrs. Gosling with the offence. Mrs. Gosling is a sharp-featured lady in an old-fashioned bonnet and a tired shawl. Mrs. Drake is the woman with the wet lips, the moist eye and the baby. “Now,” queries the Magistrate good naturedly, “what is this all about.” “Your Worship,” says Mrs. Drake, “she called me a dirty scut.” “Oh, listen till her! listen till her!” shrieks Mrs. Gosling, raising her hands and eyes, “how can you tell a lie like that and you on your oat?” “What is a scut,” queries the Magistrate. “Oh, Your Worship, I wouldn’t shame myself by using such a word.” “I never called her a scut!” screams Mrs. Gosling, “I never did. She sed I wasn’t married to me man.” “Neither ye are.” “Oh, ye lyin’ hussy, how dar you stand there and—” “Come, come,” says the Magistrate, and with the aid of the police both women are quieted down and after much trouble all the witnesses are heard and Mrs. Gosling is fined $1 and costs. Shortly after eleven, however, all the cases are disposed of, the crowd disappears, the reporters rush off to their offices and the room is locked up until the next day at ten. CHAPTER XIII. PROMENADING THE STREETS.