Part 41 (1/2)
”Oh!” he whistled slightly. ”Striker?”
”Yes.”
”Picketing?”
”Yes.”
”Held for Night Court trial. Lock her up, Officer.”
Blackness closed over the girl's brain. She thought she was going into hysterics. Her one thought was that she must get help, that she must reach some one who knew her. She burst out:
”I want to telephone.”
”To who?”
”Mr. Blaine--Mr. Blaine!”
”West Tenth Street feller?”
”Yes.”
The sergeant winked to the policeman.
”Oh, the matron'll see to that! Hey, Officer?”
Rhona felt her arm seized, and then had a sense of being dragged, a feeling of cool, fetid air, a flood of darkness, voices, and then she knew no more. The matron who was stripping her and searching her had to get cold water and wash her face....
Later Rhona found herself in a narrow cell, sitting in darkness at the edge of a cot. Through the door came a torrent of high-pitched speech.
”Yer little tough, reform! reform! What yer mean by such carryings-on? I know yer record. Beware of G.o.d, little devil....”
On and on it went, and Rhona, dazed, wondered what new terror it foreboded. But then without warning the talk switched.
”Yer know who I am?”
”Who?” quavered Rhona.
”The matron.”
”Yes?”
”I divorced him, I did.”
”Yes.”
”My husband, I'm telling yer. Are yer deef?”
Suddenly Rhona rose and rushed to the door.
”I want to send a message.”