W. Pett Ridge

“ The stout young Figure Eight from the confectioner's, red and trembling with importance; the young constable, bare-headed, looking much wiser than the whole force could actually be; her own mother, grim, and dabbing eyes with shawl, and sighing now and again so vehemently that the form on which they were all seated shook and creaked. A man was in the witness-box, one with the look of a seaman out of uniform, whom Mord Em'ly guessed to be the Court missionary. ”

“ Mord Em'ly requested the sergeant to translate the question, and the sergeant complied. Did she do a bunk from the shop her mother got for her?
"You may take it at that," replied Mord Em'ly gruffly. "Please yourself."
"It seems to me that we must look on you as incorrigible."
The sergeant obliged again. "His worship says that you're a bad nut."
"Settle it yourself," said Mord Em'ly recklessly. "It's your show."
The magistrate leaned back and looked at the skylight for a few moments, and tapped his forehead with his pen. ”

“ And you'll be trained up to some sort of occupation, so that, at the end of the time, you can earn your living, and be what you may call a credit to society. And healthy!" The seafaring-looking man laughed, and slapped his knee, and looked rather as though he were about to dance a hornpipe. "Healthy isn't the word for it. You'll be grown up to that extent, my girl— (here's a few tracts you can read in the train, if you've got time) —to that extent, that you won't know yourself."
Sixteen! Sixteen years of age! Mord Em'ly, without answering the breezy man's remarks, thought of it. ”