"I had a bottle of something—I don't know what it was—something that burned—"
There was again a laugh round the court-room, stopping suddenly as the magistrate looked up and frowned. "Have you ever been arrested before?" he asked abruptly.
The question took Jurgis aback. "I—I--" he stammered.
"Tell me the truth, now!" commanded the other, sternly. Yes, your Honor," said Jurgis.
"How often?"
"Only once, your Honor."
"What for?
"For knocking down my boss, your Honor working in the stockyards, and he—"
I was "I see," said his Honor; "I guess that will do. You ought to stop drinking if you can't control yourself. Ten days and costs. Next case."
Jurgis gave vent to a cry of dismay, cut off suddenly by the policeman, who seized him by the collar. He was jerked out of the way, into a room with the convicted prisoners, where he sat and wept like a child in his impotent rage. It seemed monstrous to him that policemen and judges should esteem his word as nothing in comparison with the bartender's; poor Jurgis could not know that the owner of the saloon paid five dollars each week to the policeman alone for Sunday privileges and general favors—nor that the pugilist bartender was one of the most trusted henchmen of the Democratic leader of the district, and had helped only a few months before to hustle out a record-breaking vote as a testimonial to the magistrate, who had been made the target of odious kid-gloved reformers.
Jurgis was driven out to the Bridewell for the second time. In his tumbling around he had hurt his arm again, and so could not work, but had to be attended by the physician. Also his head and his eye had to be tied up—and so he was a pretty-looking object when, the second day after
