the foot of the steps, where he was greeted by a number of (by this time) old acquaintances.
"I'm remanded for a week."
"Same 'ere," observed his cell-fellow of the night before. "I'll see yer, mos' likely, at the show."
"Any bloke for the 'Ville?" inquired a large, red-faced gentleman, with a pimple of a nose which he accentuated by shaving clean.
"Yus; I've got six months," said one.
"Garn!" contemptuously replied the face. "Yer'll go to the Scrubbs."
"Garn yerself!" retorted the other; and as the discussion at once became warm and general Pringle sat down in a far corner, where the disjointed shreds of talk fused into an odd patchwork. "'E says you're charged with a vurry terrible thing, says 'e (hor! hor! hor!). I tell yer, ef yer wants the strite tip—Don't you flurry yer fat, now—So, says I, then yer can swear to my character—They used to call it cocoa-castle, strite they did———"
"Answer your names, now!" The gaoler was holding the door open. Beside him stood a sergeant with a sheaf of blue papers, from which he called the names, and as each man answered he was arranged in order along the passage. It was a welcome relief. Pringle began to feel faint, having eaten nothing since the morning, and, what with the coarse hilarity and the stuffy atmosphere by which he had been environed so many hours, his head ached distractingly.
"Forward now—keep your places!" The procession tramped into an open yard, where a police van stood waiting. With much clattering of bars, jingling of keys, and banging of doors, the men, to the number of a dozen or so, were packed into the little sentry-boxes which ran round the inside of the van, its complement being furnished by four or five ladies, brought from another part of the establishment. This done, the sergeant, closing the door after him, gave the word to start, and the heavy van, lumbering out of the yard, rolled down the street like a ship in a gale.
"Gim'me a light," said a voice close to the little trap in Pringle's cell door. Looking out, he found he was addressed by a youth in the opposite box, who extended a cigarette across the corridor.
"Sorry. I haven't got one," Pringle apologised.
"'Ere y'are," came from the box on Pringle's right, and a smouldering stump was handed to the youth, who proceeded to light another from it.
"'Ave a whiff, guv'nor?" courteously offered the invisible owner. An obscene paw, holding the returned fag, appeared at the aperture.
"No, thanks," declined Pringle hastily.
"Las' chance for a week," urged the man, with genuine altruism.
"I don't smoke," protested Pringle to spare his feelings, adding, as the van turned off the road and came to a stand, "Is this the House of Detention?"
"No; this is the 'Ville."
The van rumbled under an archway, and then, after more banging, jingling, and clattering, half a dozen men were extracted from the boxes and deposited in the yard.
"Good-bye, Bill! Keep up yer sperrits!" screamed a soprano from the inmost recesses of the van.
"Come and meet us at the fortnight," growled a deepest bass from the courtyard.
A calling of names, the tramp of feet, then silence for a while, only broken by the champing of harness. Presently, a brisk order, and, rumbling through the arch again, they were surrounded by the noise of traffic. But it was not for long; a few minutes, seconds even, and they halted once more, while heavy doors groaned apart. Then, clattering through a portico full of echoes, and describing a giddy curve, the van abruptly stopped as an iron gate crashed dismally in the rear.
"Ere we are, guv'nor!" remarked the altruist.
