Mrs. Jones. [Softly.] Thank you very much, your Worship.

     [She leaves the dock, and looking back at Jones, twists her
     fingers and is still.]

Magistrate.  Yes, yes, but I can’t pass it over.  Go away, there’s a good woman.

     [Mrs. Jones stands back.  The magistrate leans his head on his
     hand; then raising it he speaks to Jones.]

Now, listen to me.  Do you wish the case to be settled here, or do you wish it to go before a jury?

Jones. [Muttering.] I don’t want no jury.

Magistrate.  Very well then, I will deal with it here. [After a pause.] You have pleaded guilty to stealing this box——­

Jones.  Not to stealin’——­

Bald constable.  HSSShh!

Magistrate.  And to assaulting the police——­

Jones.  Any man as was a man——­

Magistrate.  Your conduct here has been most improper.  You give the excuse that you were drunk when you stole the box.  I tell you that is no excuse.  If you choose to get drunk and break the law afterwards you must take the consequences.  And let me tell you that men like you, who get drunk and give way to your spite or whatever it is that’s in you, are—­are—­a nuisance to the community.

Jack. [Leaning from his seat.] Dad! that’s what you said to me!

Barthwick.  TSSt!

     [There is a silence, while the magistrate consults his clerk;
     Jones leans forward waiting.]

Magistrate.  This is your first offence, and I am going to give you a light sentence. [Speaking sharply, but without expression.] One month with hard labour.

     [He bends, and parleys with his clerk.  The bald constable and
     another help Jones from the dock.]

Jones. [Stopping and twisting round.] Call this justice?  What about ’im?  ’E got drunk!  ’E took the purse—­’e took the purse but [in a muffled shout] it’s ’is money got ’im off—­justice!

     [The prisoner’s door is shut on Jones, and from the
     seedy-looking men and women comes a hoarse and whispering groan.]

Magistrate.  We will now adjourn for lunch! [He rises from his seat.]

     [The Court is in a stir.  Roper gets up and speaks to the
     reporter.  Jack, throwing up his head, walks with a swagger to
     the corridor; Barthwick follows.]

Mrs. Jones. [Turning to him zenith a humble gesture.] Oh! sir!

     [Barthwick hesitates, then yielding to his nerves, he makes a
     shame-faced gesture of refusal, and hurries out of court.  Mrs.
     Jones stands looking after him.]

The curtain falls.