The men
borrow and lend and divide tobacco, lend even pipes, while some break
up hard tobacco and roll cigarettes with bits of newspaper. If it is
Sunday morning, even those who have no hope for bail, and have long
horrible day and night before them, will sometimes join in a cheer as
the more fortunate are bailed. But the others have tea and bread and
butter brought to them by one of the Prisoners' Aid Societies, who ask
for no religion in return. They come to save bodies, and not to fish
for souls. The men walk up and down and to and fro, and cross and
recross incessantly, as caged men and animals always do--and as some
uncaged men do too.
"Any of you gentlemen want breakfast?" Those who have money and
appetites order; some order for the sake of the tea alone; and some
"shout" two or three extra breakfasts for those who had nothing on
them when they were run in. We low people can be very kind to each
other in trouble. But now it's time to call us out by the lists,
marshal us up in the passage and draft us into court. Ladies first.
But I forgot that I am out on bail, and that the foregoing belongs to
another occasion. Or was it only imagination, or hearsay?
Journalists have got themselves run in before now, in order to see and
hear and feel and smell for themselves--and write.
"Silence! Order in the Court." I come like a shot out of my
nightmare, or trance, or what you will, and we all rise as the
magistrate takes his seat.
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