Inside the station house Tom held a few moments' converse with one of its grizzled guardians, and then led our hero along a passage and opened a door. But here McAllister shrank back. It was his first sight of that great cosmopolitan institution, the police court. Before him lay the scene of which he had so often read in the newspapers. The big room with its Gothic windows was filled to overflowing with every variety of the human species, who not only taxed the seating capacity of the benches to the utmost, but near the doors were packed into a solid, impenetrable mass. Upon a platform behind a desk a square-jawed man with chin-whiskers disposed rapidly of the file of defendants brought before him.
A long line of officers, each with one or more prisoners, stood upon the judge's left, and as fast as the business of one was concluded the next pushed forward. McAllister perceived that at best only a few moments could elapse before he was brought to face the charge against him, and that he must make up his mind quickly what course of action to pursue. As he stepped down from the doorway there was a perceptible flutter among the spectators. Several hungry-looking men with note-books opened them and poised their pencils expectantly.
Tom, having handed over McAllister to the temporary care of a brother officer, lost no time in locating his complainant, that is to say, the gentleman whose house our hero was charged with having burglariously entered. The two then sought out the clerk, who seemed to be holding a sort of little preliminary court of his own, and who, under the officer's instruction, drew up some formal document to which the complainant signed his name. McAllister was now brought before this official and briefly informed that anything he might say would be used against him at his trial. He was then interrogated, as before, in regard to his name, age, residence, and occupation, but with the same result. Indeed, no answers seemed to be expected under the circumstances, and the clerk, having written something upon the paper, waved them aside. Nothing, however, of these proceedings had been lost to the reporters, who escorted Tom and McAllister to the end of the line of officers, worrying the former for information as to his prisoner's origin and past performances. But Tom motioned them off with the papers which he held in his hand, bidding them await the final action of the magistrate. Nobody seemed particularly unfriendly; in fact, an air of general good-fellowship pervaded the entire routine going on around them. What impressed the clubman most was the persistence and omnipresence of the reporters.