Ideas for new sketches are like mushrooms in the London fields--scarce
articles, and difficult to find unless you force them in a bed. But
then the forced article will not bear comparison with that of
spontaneous growth, while you find that, as you have made your bed, so
on it you must lie. So you lie, on the strength of your forced article,
and the natural consequence is that the public will not believe you when
you tell them a story. We have had specimens lately of what the earnest
will dare in search of the novel, but in spite of Longfellow's
imperative words, we can't all be heroes. Be that as it may, though,
after a long search, I found this mental mushroom in the field of
adventure. It was nearly hidden by the surrounding growth, but peeped
forth white and shiny like a bald-crowned head, with the side crop
brushed carefully across in streaks. It was a reverse of circumstances
certainly, but the idea was new, so I took a policeman into custody;
while as a proof of the daring contained in the apparently simple act,
think of a man to whom reputation is dear, and read the following.
I had long had my eye upon the policeman, for no one could gaze upon his
face without feeling that those impressive features had a large fund of
interesting matter concealed behind. "There must be something more than
whiskers," I said, and then I considered what a sensation novelist he
would make if but of a literary bent. Truth is stranger than fiction;
and what truths we should get from the man so often sworn to "tell the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." However, failing
the policeman's turning _litterateur_, I thought a little of his
experience might be made available, and therefore the above-named
custodian act was performed.
Now the public--that is to say, the reading public--cannot guess at a
tithe of the difficulties to be encountered in making the policeman
speak; he looks upon every question as though it were, with entrapping
ideas, put to him by a sharp cross-examining counsel, and is reticent to
a degree. He is a regular Quaker--he only speaks when the spirit moveth
him; and the only effective spirit for moving him is Kinahan's LL, which
seems to soothe the perturbed current of his thoughts, makes him cease
to regard the administering hand as that of prosecutor, prisoner, or
witness in an important case, and altogether it reduces him to one's own
level, if he will allow the expression.
Bobby sat one evening in my study--as my wife insists upon calling the
little shabby room over the back kitchen--and for awhile he seemed such
a Tartar that I regretted having caught him. I almost shrank beneath
his hard stare, and began to wonder whether I had done anything that
would necessitate the use of the "darbies" he was fidgeting about in his
pocket, especially when his eyes were so intently fixed upon my wrists,
which lay upon the table before me in rather an exposed state, from the
fact of the tweed jacket I wore not being one of the "warranted shrunk."
It was enough to make any one shudder and draw the sleeves lower down,
and my performance of this act appeared to make my visitor so suspicious
that I verily believe he would have interposed to prevent my exit any
time during the course of his call.
My friend partook of my hospitality, and then began to speak, when I
opened a book and seized a pencil, but,--
"No, thanky, sir," he cried; "not if I knows it. The regular reporters
is bad enough; only what can't be cured must be endoored. But none o'
that, thanky. P'raps you'll put that book away."
Of course I did so, and felt that I must imitate the special
correspondent of the _Pall Mall Gazette_, and trust to my memory.
"Now yer see, sir, I could say a deal; but then I says to myself--`It's
my dooty to tell you as anything you now says may be used in evidence
agen you at yer trial.' Wherefore, don't you see, I takes notice of the
caution?"
I'd give something to be able to transfer to paper the solemn wink he
gave me, but that is impossible, and we both talked on indifferent
subjects until my visitor had had another mix, when thoughtfully poking
at the sugar, he said,--
"You see, sir, we do sometimes have cases on hand as makes a feller
quite savage; and then people as looks on will make it ten times wuss
for the pleeceman by siding with them as is took. Here we gets kicked
and butted, knocked down and trod upon; clothes tore, hats once, 'elmets
now, crushed; hair pulled out by the roots, and all sorts o' nice
delicate attentions o' that sort, which naterally puts a feller out, and
makes him cut up rough; then the crowd round cries out `shame,' or, `oh,
poor feller,' or what not, and makes the poor feller as has half killed
a couple o' pleecemen wuss than he was afore. Pleecemen oughter to keep
their tempers says the papers, arter what they calls a `police outrage,'
jest as if the force was recruited out of all that's amiable. _We_
ain't angels, sir, not a bit of it; and it's a wonder we don't get more
outer temper than we does. Jest you go to take a chap inter custody and
adwise him to come quietly; and then offer to take him all decent and
orderly. Jest you go and do that, and let him turn round and give you a
spank in the mouth, as cuts yer lip open and knocks a tooth loose--jest
see how angelified you'll feel then; and try what a job it is not to
pull yer staff out and half knock his blessed head off. Why, if Lord
Shaftesbury hisself had on the bracelet that night I know he'd give my
gentleman one or two ugly twists. Wun knows wun oughter keep cool, but
yer see a feller ain't made o' cast iron, which would be a blessin' to
some of our fellers' legs--being a hard material. After taking a rough
sometimes I've seen our chaps with legs black, blue, and bleeding with
kicks, while 'ceptin' a little touzlin' and sech, the prisoner hasn't
had a spot on him. Yes, it's all werry fine, `Keep yer temper,'--`Don't
be put out,'--`Take it all coolly,'--be pitched outer winder and then
`come up smilin',' as _Bell's Life_ says. Get kicked in the stummick,
and then make a bow; but that you'd be sure to do, for you'd get
reg'larly doubled up. Never mind havin' yer whiskers pulled, and bein'
skretched a bit, it's all included in yer eighteen bob or pound a week;
and, above all--keep yer temper.
"A niste job two on us had in Oxford-street, I think it was, one day.
It was over a horinge chap as had been making an obstruction in the
busiest part o' the thoroughfare. We'd been at him for about a week,
arstin' him civilly to drop it; for the vestry had been laying the case
before the magistrate, and we had our orders. You see it was a good
pitch; and this chap used to do a roaring bit o' business, and of course
it warn't pleasant to give it up; but then he'd no call to be there, yer
know, for he was interfering with the traffic; so in course we had to
put a stop to it.
"Well, yer know, it had come to that pitch at last that if he wouldn't
go why we was to take him, and Dick Smith was the one that was in for it
along with me. We neither on us liked it, for this was a civil-spoken
chap in a suit o' cords, a bird's-eye handkercher, and a fur cap. He'd
got a smart way, too, o' doing his hair, which was black and turned
under at the two sides afore his ears; and besides he was only trying to
get a honest living; but dooty's dooty, yer know, sir, and we ain't got
much chance o' pickin' and choosin'. So I says to Dick, as we goes
along--
"`Now, then, Dick,' I says, `which is it to be, the cove or his barrer?'
"`Oh!' says Dick, `I'm blest if I'm a-goin' to wheel the barrer through
the public streets. Look well for a pleece-constable in uniform,
wouldn't it?'
"`Well,' I says, rather chuff, `some one's got it to do, and I ain't
a-goin' to have it shoved on to me. Tell yer what we'll do--we'll toss
up.'
"`All right,' says Dick, `so we will.'
"So I fetches out a copper, the on'y one we could furridge out between
us, and to Dick I says, `Now, then, sudden death?'
"`Not a bit of it,' says he, `I'll go off lingerin'--best two out o'
three.'
"`Werry well,' I says, `anything for peace and quietness.' And so we
tossed.
"`Heads,' says Dick.
"`Woman it is,' says I. `One to me;' and then I passes the brown over
to Dick, and he spins up.
"`Lovely woman,' says I, and lovely woman it was.
"`Blowed if here ain't two Bobbies a tossin',' says one o' them niste
boys as yer meets with in London.
"Didn't I feel savage, though I had won; and for a moment I almost
wished it had been that werry young gentleman as we had to take. But my
boy gives a grin and a hop, skip, and a jump, and then cuts behind a
gentleman's carriage as was passing, when the Johnny put out his foot
and gave him a push, and down he goes into the mud"; which was, of
course, pleasant to our outraged feelings, though it would have taken a
great deal of mud to spoil that boy's clothes.
"`Now then, Dick,' I says, `let's be off.'
"`Wot's the hurry?' says Dick, who was a thinking of the barrer, I could
see.
"`Oh, come on,' I says; for, thinks I to myself, `you're on the right
hand side of the way, my boy.'
"So off we goes, till we comes to the well-known spot, and there stood
my chap, a-doing a raging trade.
"`Now then, young feller,' I says, `you must move on.'
"`What for?' says he.
"`Obstructing the thoroughfare,' says I.
"`Taste 'em,' he says, `they're fust-rate to-day. Shove two or three in
yer pocket for the young Bobbies.'
"`Won't do,' I says; `we've got our orders, and off yer goes.'
"`Get out,' he says, `you're chaffin'.'
"`Not a bit of it,' I says; `so stow nonsense and go on quietly, there's
a good feller.'
"`All right,' he says, seeing as we was serious, `all right.' And then
he sells a horinge to this one, and a horinge to that one, and
sixpenn'orth to another one; but not a hinch would he move. So we waits
a bit, and then I gives him another gentle hint or two.
"`All right,' he says agin, `wait a bit.'
"Well, yer knows, sir, this went on for about half an hour, and a crowd
gets collected, and every time as I speaks to him, `All right,' he says,
`wait a bit,' and then the crowd laughed and the boys hoorayed.
"I thinks to myself `This here won't do,' but neither Dick nor me wanted
to begin, so I has one last try, and I says quietly,--
"`Now, are you a-goin' or not? Becos if you ain't we must make yer.'
"`All right,' he says, `wait a bit,' and the people bust out a laughin'
again, and the crowd gets bigger than ever.
"`Now, then, Dick,' I says to my mate, `come on,' for I see as it was no
use to be played with any longer.
"So Dick goes to the barrer, and I collars the chap, and the row began.
Dick lays hold o' the barrer handles quite savagely, and shoots a dozen
o' horinges off inter the road, when, of course, there was a regular
scramble, and somebody calls out `Shame!' Then my chap takes and throws
hisself down, and gives my wrist such a screw as a'most sprained it, and
then somebody else calls out `Shame!'
"`Now you'd better come on quietly,' I says to my chap. `You'll do no
good by making a row.' And then I tries to get him up on his legs, when
some one calls out `Shame!' agin.
"`What's a shame?' I says, which I didn't oughter have done, for I knew
my dooty better than they could tell me. Howsoever I says it, `What's a
shame?' I says.
"`Ill usin' a honest man,' says the crowd.
"I sees as it was no use to talk, so I gets well hold o' my chap, and
seeing, as he did, as his barrer was a moving off with Dick in the
sharps, and the boys a hoorayin', he gets up, and we was goin' on all
right, when some on 'em calls out `Shame!' again, and that sets the chap
off, and he throws hisself down, and, wuss luck, throws me down too,
when off goes my box, and in the scuffle my gent jumps up, puts his foot
on it, and nearly gets away.
"Now this made me a bit warm, for I was hurt, and I didn't mean to let
him go at no price now. So, jest as he'd shook me off and was going to
bolt, I gets hold of his leg as I lays on the ground, when he gives me
the savagest kick right aside o' the head, and nobody didn't cry `shame'
then.
"Well, I wasn't stunned, but I felt precious giddy. I jumps up, though,
and lays hold of him--sticks to him, too, and sometimes we was down and
sometimes up, and I know we rolled over in the mud half a dozen times.
"Last of all, in one of the struggles in all of which the crowd hindered
me as much as it could, my chap goes down, spang, with his head on the
pavement, and me atop of him, and there he lay stunned.
"`Shame, shame!' cries the crowd, `you've killed the poor fellow.' And
then they begins a shovin' and a hustlin' of me about, and I don't know
how it would have ended if one of our chaps hadn't ha' come up; and then
Dick came back after gettin' rid o' the barrer. Then we had the
stretcher fetched, and the end of it was Horinges got seven days for
assaultin' the police, and I got seven days, too--only mine was in the
infirmary.
"You wouldn't have ketched me tossin' if I'd known.
"You see, people will be so precious fond o' takin' what they calls the
weak side. They never stops to ask themselves whether it's right or
whether it's wrong; but they goes at it like a bull at a gate, and it's
us as suffers. Many's the chap as has got away when the pleece has jest
nicely put a finger on him. In comes Public. `Let that poor chap
alone,' says he, `what are you draggin' him off in chains like that
for?' And so on to that tune till every one begins to feel for the
chap, who puts on a cantin' phisog, and turns his eyes about like them
coves as chalks on the pavement for a livin'. Perhaps he's a burglar,
or a smasher, or swell-mobsman, or a nice tender-hearted critter as has
been beatin' his wife with a poker, or knocked her head agin the wall,
or some nice trick o' that kind. And then everybody takes part agin the
police, and what can they do?
"`Their dooty,' says you.
"Well, in course, but it don't come werry pleasant, mind yer.
"People don't side with us; they don't like us a bit. And of course
you'll say we don't like the people. Well, we'll drop that part of the
business. It's only natural for us to like a good murder, or burglary,
or forgery. You swells likes your huntin', and fishin' and shootin';
and we enjoys our sport as much as you does your little games. There's
a sorter relish about taking a fellow for anything exciting just when my
gentleman fancies he's got clean off--hopped his twig, as he thinks;
when in we goes at my gaol-bird, and pops salt on his tail. Bless yer,
we claps the darbies on his wrists, and has him walked off before he
knows what's up. He's like a orspital patient; we chloroforms him with
the bracelets, and before he comes to hisself we've cut off his liberty,
and he wakes up in a cell."
"Yer see, sir," said my friend, rising, "yer see, we've a knack o' doin'
it. Spose, now, it's you as is wanted. I've held you in play, say for
half an hour, to make sure as you're the man as I wants, for I've got
yer phortygruff pinned in my hat; and at last I walks up to yer just so,
and `You're my pris'ner,' says I. Whereupon you ups with yer hands--
just so, that's the way--and tries to shove me off, when--"
"_Click, Click_..."
"There I has yer snug with your bracelets on; and werry proud I feels of
yer."
And in effect my visitor had carried out his illustration to the fullest
extent, so that I sat before him handcuffed, and he resumed his seat
smiling with triumph and LL. I suggested the removal of my bonds; but
my captor, as he seemed to consider himself, merely smiled again, helped
himself to a cigar, lighted it, and began to smoke.
This was as bad as being a Lambeth casual. Anybody, even Mrs Scribe
might come in, and the thought was more powerful than any sudorific in
the pharmacopoeia. It was no use to appeal to K9, for he seemed to
consider Brag was a good dog, but Holdfast a better; and he did nothing
but smile and smoke. Getting an idea for an article was all very well,
but at what a cost! It would not do at all. Why the special
correspondent of the _PMG_ would not have rested upon his hay-bag if a
committee to whom he was well-known had entered the place to inspect
him. He would have fled without his bundle. Ay, and so would I, but
there was some one coming up the stairs, and I should have run right
into some one's arms. A last appeal to the fellow before me only
produced another smile; so, as a _dernier ressort_, I drew my chair
towards the table, and thrust my manacled hands out of sight.
I was just in time, for the handle turned, and in walked an artist
friend, who always makes a point of considering himself as much at home
in my room as I do myself in his.
"How are you, old boy?" said he, which was hardly the thing, considering
the company I was in.
I muttered something about being very well, and Chrayonne seated himself
by the fire.
"Pass the cigar-box, old fellow," said he. But I couldn't hear him, and
tried to appear as if sitting at my ease--of course, a very simple thing
with one's hands pinioned.
"Pass the cigars, Scribe," said Chrayonne, again, in a louder key; while
the policeman wagged his head, and smiled knowingly.
"He can't," said the wretch, grinning outright.
"Can't?" said Chrayonne, with a puzzled look. "Can't? But, I say," he
exclaimed, jumping up, "I beg your pardon, old fellow, I never thought
about your being engaged. I'm off. _Excusez_."
"Pris'ner," said K9, grinning.
"I am not," I exclaimed, indignantly; but it was of no avail, for the
wretch pulled the table-cover on one side, and pointed to my manacled
hands.
Chrayonne blew out his cheeky opened his eyes widely, and then whistled
very softly. Then, after a pause--
"Very sorry, old fellow. Can I do anything? Bail--friends--
solicitors--"
"Yes," I exclaimed, furiously. "Knock that scoundrel down, and take the
key of these confounded handcuffs from him. It's a rascally piece of
humbug--it's a trick."
Chrayonne looked at the constable, who winked at him in reply, and, to
my intense disgust, I could see that for the moment he was more disposed
to place faith in the impassive demeanour of the myrmidon of the law
than in my indignant protestations.
Just then, however, by a desperate effort, and at the cost of some skin,
I dragged one hand from its durance vile, and rushed at my captor, as he
dubbed himself; but he coolly rose, took out the key, and released my
other hand. Then pocketing the handcuffs, and winking at us both in
turn, he opened the door, and the room knew him no longer. While, as a
specimen of the advantage or disadvantage of first impressions, I may
add that it took two cigars and words innumerable to make Chrayonne
believe that my visitor had not departed with the expectation of a heavy
bribe as payment for my release.