"I haven't done nothing; it's her that's come in drunk and got up a row." Pushing the crowd aside, a policeman entered the hovel.
"Here she is!" cried the woman, pointing toward Pinky, from whom she had sprung back the moment she heard the word police.

"She came in here drunk and got up a row.

I'm a decent woman, as don't meddle with nobody.
But she's awful when she gets drunk.

Just look at her--been tearing her clothes off!" At this there was a shout of merriment from the crowd who had witnessed the fight.
"Good for old Sal! she's one of 'em! Can't get ahead of old Sal, drunk or sober!" and like expressions were shouted by one and another.
Poor Pinky, nearly stripped of her clothing, and with a great bruise swelling under one of her eyes, bewildered and frightened at the aspect of things around her, could make no acceptable defence.
"She ran over and pitched into Sal, so she did! I saw her! She made the fight, she did!" testified one of the crowd; and acting on this testimony and his own judgment of the case, the policeman said roughly, as he laid his hand on Pinky.
"Pick up your duds and come along." Pinky lifted her torn garments from the dirty floor and gathered them about her person as best she could, the crowd jeering all the time.

A pin here and there, furnished by some of the women, enabled her to get them into a sort of shape and adjustment.