I had just worked myself up into rather an impressive state of moral
indignation and was preparing to go even further, when a bright light
shone upon me from below and a voice spoke.
"Ho!" it said.
It was a policeman. Apart from the fact of his having a lantern, I
knew it was a policeman because he had said "Ho!" I don't know if
you recollect my telling you of the time I broke into Bingo Little's
house to pinch the dictaphone record of the mushy article his wife had
written about him and sailed out of the study window right into the
arms of the Force? On that occasion the guardian of the Law had said
"Ho!" and kept on saying it, so evidently policemen are taught this as
part of their training. And, after all, it's not a bad way of opening
conversation in the sort of circs. in which they generally have to chat
with people.
"You come on down out of that," he said.
I came on down. I had just got the flower pot balanced on its branch,
and I left it there, feeling rather as if I had touched off the time
fuse of a bomb. Much seemed to me to depend on its stability and poise,
as it were. If it continued to balance, an easy nonchalance might still
get me out of this delicate position. If it fell, I saw things being a
bit hard to explain. In fact, even as it was, I couldn't see my way to
any explanation which sounded convincing.
However, I had a stab at it.
"Ah, officer," I said.
It sounded weak. I said it again, this time with the emphasis on the
"Ah!" It sounded weaker than ever. I saw that Bertram would have to do
better.
"It's all right, officer," I said.
"Ho!"
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes."
"Ho! What you doing up there?"
"Me, officer?"
"Yes, you."
"Nothing, Sergeant."
"Ho!"
We eased into the silence, but it wasn't one of those restful silences
that occur in talks between old friends. Embarrassing. Awkward.
"What you doing up that tree?"
"Tree?"
"Yes. Tree."
"Well, it's like this----"
"Ho?"
"It's rather hard to explain, but----"
"Ho!"
"It's quite all right, though."
"Ho!"
There was another lull in the conversation.
"You'd better come along with me," said the gendarme.
The last time I had heard those words from a similar source had been
in Leicester Square one Boat Race Night when, on my advice, my old
pal Oliver Randolph Sipperley had endeavoured to steal a policeman's
helmet at a moment when the policeman was inside it. On that occasion
they had been addressed to young Sippy, and they hadn't sounded any too
good, even so. Addressed to me, they more or less froze the marrow.
"No, I say, dash it!" I said.
And it was at this crisis, when Bertram had frankly shot his bolt and
could have been described as nonplussed, that a soft step sounded
beside us and a soft voice broke the silence.
"Have you got them, officer? No, I see. It is Mr. Wooster."