ALL NIGHT IN THE CELLS.
The numerous police stations of the city, and especially the Central
station are on account of the news and incidents which surround them,
favorite fishing grounds for the reporters. There is scarcely an hour
of the day or night, that a reporter alert, watchful and ever ready
for business, may not be found in the Central station ready to pick up
the slightest item of news and bear it in all haste to the paper he
represents. The reporters know the working of each station almost as well
as the officer on duty. I was standing one night on the corner of Jordan
and King streets when I observed four young men coming from the direction
of Bay street. They were all more or less intoxicated, but one of them, a
young man whom I knew well and who I was aware seldom touched liquor was
the drunkest of the lot. He was quarrelsome and very noisy, and it was
not long before I saw the dark figures of two policemen crossing from the
corner of King and Yonge towards the group. One of them expostulated with
the young man, but he became indignant, then abusive, and was finally
arrested and taken to No. 1 station. I followed the party, and when we
entered the inspector’s office I could see by the bewildered look in
the unfortunate young man’s eyes that he had never been there before.
He was led to the railing round the inspector’s desk, and that officer
studied him coolly for a moment through the little wicket, and then
demanded his name. The young man gave it mechanically, and in the same
way told the place of his birth, his age, religion and employment. Then
the orderly on duty went through his pockets, took from him his knife,
watch and chain, money, papers, pipe and tobacco, and other articles,
and then with a gruff “Come on, here,” led him down. His arrest, his
march through the gaping crowd in the brightly lit streets, his search
upstairs, the subdued remarks of the police on duty, and the bitter clang
of the iron door behind him had evidently sobered him. His heart is like
water in him, and he feels his blood course chilly in his veins as he
stands aghast, gazing about him in the strange place. The concrete floor,
the row of iron doors, and oh, horror! worse than all, the battered old
drunk, who comes reeling towards him with a “Hello, old feller, you in
too? Shake!” fills him with a convulsive dread, a nameless terror that
sets the cold sweat oozing from every pore in his clammy skin.
He shrinks from the repugnant old drunk with a shiver of loathing and
flings himself down on a bench in a paroxysm of bitter tears. Yes, weep
poor wretch! Down on your knees—down on your knees in this foul place and
float your prayers to heaven. You are a young man yet, yours may not be
unavailing tears, the best years of your life are before you—down on your
knees!
The old drunk comes stumbling forward. “Wash yer cryin’ for? Brash up,
brash up—it’s all in a life time, look at me.” Yes, look at him! He’s
a dandy! His face is gray with drink, there are blood lines in the
yellowish white of his dim, dry eyes, his beard and hair unkempt, his
clothes muddy and tattered, and his shoes all broken. But the miserable
old creature means well with the youth. “Brash up I shay, the world owes
ush a living, an’ we’re goin’ through the world for the lash time.”
Going through the world for the last time! Ah!
The young man leaps to his feet with a fresh sensation of horror. What
means that sound of struggling on the stairway—those fearful curses
and frenzied cries of helpless rage that make his muscles quiver? The
officers are dragging a fresh victim to the cells. He struggles with his
captors every inch of the way. The door is flung violently open, and
the wretch is thrown into the room. Is this a man or a lower species
of beast? Its face is covered with blood, its matted hair stands stiff
about its head, its eyes flash fire, and its covering is in tatters. The
police drag it to a cell, shut it in, lock it up, and then, flushed and
panting, stand looking in at it with an expression on their faces that we
might expect to see on that of a hunter who had meshed a lion. Yes, it
is a man—no other animal can curse. He springs to his feet with a hoarse
roar, and taking the bars in his hands, shakes the gate with the strength
of a maniac. He paces up and down his narrow cell, uttering wild cries
of vengeance, till at last he falls upon his bench exhausted, and his
labored breathing tells that he is asleep. More drunks! all noisy, all
battered. One of them wants to embrace the young man, who springs from
him with a cry of downright fear. Then the affectionate drunk becomes
indifferent and wants to thump him, but, fortunately, he is too drunk
to carry it out. The door opens, and a man comes in quietly this time.
His hat is pulled down over his evil eyes and as he slinks to a corner
“common thief” is marked on every inch of him. The affectionate drunk
wants to embrace him also, but the thief rises with a growl and threatens
to hit him a crack on the nose if he doesn’t go and lie down and give him
a rest. The door opens again, and a fashionably-dressed gambler comes in,
whose last word to the officer at the door is to “Send for Tommy; he’ll
bail me out.” The affectionate drunk stands in awe of the newcomer’s good
clothes, and the thief, with a side glance at his stylish pin, shrugs
his shoulders, pulls his slouch hat further down over his eyes, and
settles himself for a sleep. The gambler goes into an open cell and lies
down, but I the young man paces the room with clenched hands and fevered
heart. And so the weary night wears on, and as the gray morning touches
the windows with its cool fingers one by one the drunks rouse themselves
from their sleep and shuffle over to the water tap to quench the burning
thirst that consumes their throats. Even these wretches can joke in their
misery.
“That was a surprise party to your stomach, I bet,” says one, as he
watches another take his first eager gulp of water, which fairly turns to
steam as it goes hissing down his fevered throat.
“Wouldn’t a big John Collins go good now, eh?”
“Or a brandy and soda, yum, yum!”
“Water’s a good thing to wash with,” says another boozer, as he lays down
the cup and shakes his head, “but it’s no good to drink, not much.”
Then they get sympathetic and friendly.
“What do you expect to get?” says one.
“Oh, sixty days this crack, nothing less.”
“Been up before?”
“Have I? Humph! The old man’ll spot me as soon as I get into the
bull-pen.”
“What kind ov a police magistrate have yez in this blasted town?” asks a
boozer from the bench.
They all look at him admiringly, enviously.
“Never up before?”
“Never struck the darn town in my life till last night, and betcher life
I’ll git outen it, too, as soon as I git out o’ jail.”
“You’ll git off on yer fust offence,” chorus the rest, and they look upon
him as a company of paupers would look on one of their number who had
been left a legacy. By this time the sun fills the streets, the tide of
life roars past, and the group of wretches await the peal in St. James’
steeple announcing a quarter to ten.