A SCENE AT THE POLICE COURT - THE HOSTILITY OF COLOR
A long file of applicants, perhaps seventy-five or eighty, passed in review before the Police Commissioners yesterday afternoon, anxious to be employed by the city in snatching drunks, burglars, petty larcenors, wife-whippers, and all offenders generally, under the authority of a star on the left breast. One of the candidates - a fine, burly specimen of an Emeralder - leaned negligently against the door-post, speculating on his chances of being "passed," and at the same time whiffing industriously at an old dhudeen, blackened by a thousand smokes. He was smoking thus thoughtfully when a contraband passed him, conveying a message to some official in the Court.
"There goes another applicant," said a wag at his elbow.
"What?" asked the smoker.
"A darkey looking for a sit on the Police," was the reply.
"An' do they give nagurs a chance on the Polis?"
"Then, be J____s," said Pat, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and stowing it away, "I'm out of the ring; I wouldn't demane mesilf padrowling o'nights with a nagur."
He gave one glance at the innocent and unsuspecting darkey, and left the place in disgust.
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