THE NIGHT POLICEMAN.
“Come along Teraulay street,” said a night policeman the other night to
me, “you may as well go that way to the office as any other.” It was
after one o’clock in the morning, it was a starless night, our footsteps
echoed strangely from the houses, millions of unseen spirits were opening
with noiseless fingers the swelling buds of the horse-chestnuts over
head, and, in short, the night policeman by my side wanted to chat and
thus pass some of the time away. I was not slow in taking advantage of
the humor he was in.
“I suppose you have some queer experiences patrolling through the ward at
night,” I put in as a starter.
“Indeed I have,” he replied as he adjusted his cape over his shoulders,
“yes indeed. You would hardly believe me if I told you some of them. See
here, Kate,” addressing a woman who was slinking past in the shadows,
“You had best get under cover somewhere. If I see you again I’ll run
you in, mind that.” The woman scuttled away in the darkness, and the
policeman, catching step with me again, continued, “Yes, it’s a queer
life we lead out in the street at night, and it’s queer things we hear
and it’s queer people we see. Why, it’s not half an hour ago that I was
seeing down that street yonder when I heard a woman’s screams and cries
of murder. I could hear the sound of vicious blows, and was not long in
locating the house.
“The screams grew louder, and, drawing my baton, I made a rush against
the door and burst it open. As I entered the little hall the light in a
back room was put out. I struck a match, and going through lit a lamp on
the table. Well, sir, it was
A QUEER SIGHT.
A woman was crouching on the floor in her nightdress. Her face was
swollen and bleeding, and there was a cut on her head. Her white garment
was spotted with blood, and she was groaning with pain. In the corner
stood her husband, a big, ugly fellow half dressed.
“What are you killing your wife for, Bill?” says I, “You’ll have to come
with me.”
“I never struck her,” says he.
“Indeed that’s true, sir,” said the woman, “I fell down the cellar stairs
in the dark.”
“But I heard you yelling murder outside.”
“Sir, you must have been mistaken, I never cried murder. Did I, Bill.
’Pon my word, sor, it was by falling down the stairs I got hurt.”
“‘Show me the stairs,’ says I, and would you believe it, there isn’t a
cellar in the place, nor stairs neither!”
“Did you arrest him?”
“Naw! where would be the use? She would come up in the morning and swear
a hole through a brick wall that he never put a hand on her, and where
would I be?—I’d look like a fool, and I would be reprimanded for bringing
a case like that into court. Yes, I left them there, and as I was goin’
out, what do you think but the fellow followed me and threatened to have
me before the commissioners for breaking in his door. There are lots of
scenes like that, lots of ’em. Why I have heard the devil’s own ruction
going on in a house, and when I went in there they were all sitting among
a lot of broken furniture, as mum as mice and ready to swear that they
hadn’t opened their mouths to speak for twenty-four hours.”
“What about burglars?”
“I have had some queer experiences. Ha! ha! One moonlight night I was
pacing on my beat, when I saw a dark figure leap over a fence that
surrounded the handsome premises of a wealthy lawyer. I went to the fence
and looked over, but it was dark on the terrace and I could see nothing.
In a few minutes, however, I saw
THE DARK FIGURE OF A MAN
crawling stealthily along the veranda and enter through an open window,
and in a few minutes a faint light shone out. Fortunately I could hear in
the distance a footstep which I rightly judged was the policeman on the
other beat. I went up a block, called him, and the two of us returned to
the scene of operations. After consultation I put my comrade to watch the
window while I went round the house. I found a room on the ground floor
dimly lit. I tapped on the window and in almost a moment I heard a man
get out of bed and come to the window. It was the man of the house. He
recognized me at once. I whispered to him that I had seen a man climbing
through one of his up-stair windows. He never said a word, but beckoned
me round to the front of the house and let me in. I told him what part of
the house it was in, and we went softly up stairs. We could hear no noise
nor did we meet anyone. We went in softly through a long corridor, and
descending three steps entered what I took to be the servants’ quarters.
Suddenly my companion touched me on the arm and pointed to a strip of
light under a door. We both came closer, and could hear a whispering
inside. I asked him if I would burst the door, and he nodded. I drew back
as far as I could, and then launched myself with all my force against the
door, which gave way easily, and we both sprang into the room.”
“Did you catch the burglar?” I inquired, as the policeman started to wipe
his lips and look up at the sky.
“You bet we did. He was easy caught. In fact, he and the housemaid
were—well, this is a queer world.
SUCH A SCENE
I never saw. The girl wept, implored, prayed and finally went into a fit.
The “burglar” got down on his knees and begged for mercy, and the lawyer
stormed and swore and finally laughed. The whole house was roused, and
some of the women came in and cared for the wretched girl.”
“Did you arrest the fellow?”
“No, the lawyer was satisfied with kicking the fellow into the street,
and bundling the girl after him on the next morning, and that was the
whole of it. It turned out that he had been in the habit of visiting her
in this way for months, and he would not have been caught that time had
it not been for the bright moonlight. He might have known better, but
when a fellow makes up his mind to see his girl he will undergo any risk
no matter what it is. I often meet him, and he looks mighty sheepish, I
can tell you. See that high door-step?”
“Which, this one?” “Yes.”
“Well, one frightfully cold night last winter I sat down on that
door-step a moment to make an entry in my book. I had hardly seated
myself when
I THOUGHT I HEARD BREATHING.
I was puzzled for a moment, and looked all around, but couldn’t make out
where the sound came from. Finally I decided it was under the door-step.
I got down, reached under and pulled out two little children, a boy and a
girl, half naked and nearly frozen. I took them to the station, where we
thawed them out and saved their lives. They had been put out half-dressed
by their drunken step-father, the poor little things had crept under the
door-step for shelter, and if I had not found them when I did they would
have been frozen to death as sure as fate. See that lane?”
“Yes.”
“Caught a burglar in there in great shape. I was coming along very
quietly one night when I ran against a fellow coming out of the lane. He
made some excuse and hurried away as quick as he could, and after he got
some distance he gave a loud and peculiar whistle. I felt that something
was wrong, and went down the lane a little piece to where there was a
high board fence. Some one called out, ‘Are you there Flight?’ I answered
‘yes,’ and then he said ‘look out and catch,’ and the next moment he
threw a bundle of stuff over the fence, and it fell right into my arms.
He threw over another bundle, and then he climbed over himself, when I
collared him. He was the most surprised burglar you ever saw. I took both
him and the bundles to the station, and he got two years. I never found
out who the other fellow was, but he was no good anyhow, or he would have
risked himself to warn his mate in some fashion.
“Yes,” said the policeman, as he went softly up a couple of steps, tried
a door, and then resumed his walk. “We have some mighty unpleasant
experiences. ‘Pulling a house,’ as they call it, is not to my taste, but
we’ve got to do it, all the same. We never know anything about it till
we are paraded at twelve o’clock and marched away in a body. The house
to be raided is then surrounded, men being placed in the rear and at
all points of exit, the rest accompanying the sergeant into the house.
Sometimes there is a great hullabaloo, but generally they keep mighty
quiet. The last house I helped to raid was on ⸺ street. It was a mighty
cold night, and they had no suspicion of what was going to happen. The
house was pretty full and so were the inmates, and they were dancing and
raising particular Cain. When the sergeant rang the bell they didn’t
stop, but after the woman of the house had peeped out and seen the police
she gave one yell, and that settled it. We pushed in, and could see them
dashing up stairs and flying for the rear of the house on all sides. One
young fellow took it quite philosophically, lighting a fresh cigar and
awaiting further developments. Those who ran out the back way were netted
easily, and were brought back looking mighty crestfallen. None of the
girls tried the escape dodge—they simply broke for their rooms to secure
their valuables. Two who had never been arrested before set up a most
lugubrious howling. They threw themselves down on the floor, tore their
hair, and cut up bad. Another girl swore a steady stream of oaths for
half an hour, while the rest cut jokes with us to cover their chagrin.
The sergeant found one man under the bed. He hauled him out by the heels,
and the expression on that fellow’s face when the sergeant yanked him to
his feet by the collar, would make a dog laugh. Another fellow had been
hid his girl in a narrow closet, and when found he was bleeding at the
nose. In a little while he would have been smothered. It was rather a
queer procession back to the station. Some of them were singing, others
crying, while the rest of them were swearing like dock-wollopers.”
A CUTE GIRL.
“One morning about two o’clock I was pacing my beat in a neighborhood
where a large number of wealthy people resided. All at once I saw a
female figure coming swiftly towards me, and when she reached me she
proved to be a young and very handsome girl. She was all out of breath
and greatly excited. She could hardly speak for a moment, and then she
gasped out that some one had broken into her house and was raising a
disturbance. ‘He threatened to kill me, sir; come along and arrest him.’
I never hesitated to go with the woman, and I started off. She took me
away three or four blocks, and brought me into a house where a dim light
was burning. There were a few dishes smashed on the floor, and some of
the furniture was overturned, but that was all. We searched the house and
the premises, but could find nobody, and after wasting about an hour I
returned to my beat. Would you believe it? Two of them houses had been
burglarized during my absence, and over $3,000 worth of stuff carried
off.”
“And the woman—?”
“The woman steered me away from the spot while they went for the swag—you
bet I’m not fooled like that again.”
“Did you have her arrested?”
“Pooh! what good would that do, man? She would have stuck to her story,
and that would settle it. There would be simply a suspicion that her
little yarn to me that night was made up, but no jury or magistrate would
convict her.”
THE FINDERS.
“Hullo!” said my policeman friend as he glanced across at a house where a
light suddenly appeared in one of the windows, “the finders are getting
up.”
“Finders; what are finders?” I inquired.
“It’s no wonder you ask the question. It’s astonishing the different ways
that some people do make their living in this city. A finder is a man who
makes his living by finding things.”
“Go on.”
“The finders are chiefly colored people, living in the Ward. They sally
out just at daybreak, and dividing up into squads, slowly patrol Yonge,
King and Queen streets on both sides. As they stroll along they carefully
scrutinize the sidewalks, alley entrances, door ways and the gutter in
search of lost articles, money, etc.”
“I wouldn’t think they would make much at that kind of work?”
“Yes, but they do. You have no idea of the amount of things lost on these
streets at night. A drunken man may sprawl into the gutter and lose his
watch, purse or some other valuable. He gathers himself up and goes on.
In the dark the article is not noticed, but the first break of dawn
reveals it to the professional finder. A drunken man may stumble into
an alley and lose his hat, the professional finder gets it at daylight.
Thieves arrested on the streets often stealthily throw valuables they
have stolen into the gutter, and there they are sure to become the prey
of the finder. A thief being pursued will throw away his revolver that
would tell against him and the finder gets it in the morning. Oh, I tell
you they sometimes come home with quite a boodle, and no one can say but
they get it honest enough.
“Strange things occur on the streets, and some robberies have their funny
side. One night a couple of crooks met a lawyer from a country town not a
thousand miles from Toronto, very drunk in Osgoode lane. He was sitting
down on a heap of stones, and wasn’t able to get on his feet. He implored
them to take him where he could sleep. They took him up the lane a piece
and then told him that he was in their room, and that he was to undress
and get into bed. He with many protestations of gratitude prepared
himself for rest, and his two friends bidding him good-night, and hoping
that he would sleep well, and further promising to call him early, walked
off with his hat, clothes, and boots, which were found in a pawn-shop
next morning, where they had got $2 on them. The stranger wandered around
till a good-natured laborer going early to work discovered him and took
him into his house. The lawyer repaid him well for it afterwards. I know
the fellows who did the deed, but they were never arrested, as the lawyer
did not wish it, and by the way he has never drank a drop of liquor
since.”