The judge looked up for the first time; nor, it should be noted, did he look down again.
Address?
56 East Thirty-seventh Street: this in a considerably lower tone.
What do you know about this case?
I was driving in the taxi-cab.
Go on, Miss Blake, put in the judge in a manner which was kindly but certainly not paternal. Tell us your story in your own way.
That man—she pointed to the Irishman—ran into my car. . . . He turned to the left.
The prisoner was sworn.
Your honour . . .
Don't lie now! Tell the truth! The judge was stern. His eyes were on Alice.
Your honour, I . . . Yer see, it wern't my fault. There wern't no signal at that corner . . . I was turnin' . . .
To the left, interjected the lawyer for the taxi-driver.
Were you drunk?
No, your honour: with great indignation.
Was he drunk? This to the policeman.
I don't think so, your honour.
I'm tired of these cases. You truck-drivers think you can run the streets. This little girl—he beamed through his pince-nez at the shrinking Miss Blake—has been thoroughly shaken up as a result of your wanton behaviour. I cannot have the
