A Christmas Garland

By

RD*RD KPLNG

Then it’s collar ’im tight,
In the name o’ the Lawd! 
’Ustle ’im, shake ’im till ’e’s sick! 
Wot, ’e would, would ’e?  Well,
Then yer’ve got ter give ’im ’Ell,
An’ it’s trunch, trunch, truncheon does the trick

POLICE STATION DITTIES.

I had spent Christmas Eve at the Club, listening to a grand pow-wow between certain of the choicer sons of Adam.  Then Slushby had cut in.  Slushby is one who writes to newspapers and is theirs obediently “HUMANITARIAN.”  When Slushby cuts in, men remember they have to be up early next morning.

Sharp round a corner on the way home, I collided with something firmer than the regulation pillar-box.  I righted myself after the recoil and saw some stars that were very pretty indeed.  Then I perceived the nature of the obstruction.

“Evening, Judlip,” I said sweetly, when I had collected my hat from the gutter.  “Have I broken the law, Judlip?  If so, I’ll go quiet.”

“Time yer was in bed,” grunted X, 36.  “Yer Ma’ll be lookin’ out for yer.”

This from the friend of my bosom!  It hurt.  Many were the night-beats I had been privileged to walk with Judlip, imbibing curious lore that made glad the civilian heart of me.  Seven whole 8×5 inch note-books had I pitmanised to the brim with Judlip.  And now to be repulsed as one of the uninitiated!  It hurt horrid.

There is a thing called Dignity.  Small boys sometimes stand on it.  Then they have to be kicked.  Then they get down, weeping.  I don’t stand on Dignity.

“What’s wrong, Judlip?” I asked, more sweetly than ever.  “Drawn a blank to-night?”

“Yuss.  Drawn a blank blank blank.  ’Avent ’ad so much as a kick at a lorst dorg.  Christmas Eve ain’t wot it was.”  I felt for my note-book.  “Lawd!  I remembers the time when the drunks and disorderlies down this street was as thick as flies on a fly-paper.  One just picked ’em orf with one’s finger and thumb.  A bloomin’ battew, that’s wot it wos.”

“The night’s yet young, Judlip,” I insinuated, with a jerk of my thumb at the flaring windows of the “Rat and Blood Hound.”  At that moment the saloon-door swung open, emitting a man and woman who walked with linked arms and exceeding great care.

Judlip eyed them longingly as they tacked up the street.  Then he sighed.  Now, when Judlip sighs the sound is like unto that which issues from the vent of a Crosby boiler when the cog-gauges are at 260° F.

“Come, Judlip!” I said.  “Possess your soul in patience.  You’ll soon find someone to make an example of.  Meanwhile”—­I threw back my head and smacked my lips—­“the usual, Judlip?”

In another minute I emerged through the swing-door, bearing a furtive glass of that same “usual,” and nipped down the mews where my friend was wont to await these little tokens of esteem.

“To the Majesty of the Law, Judlip!”

When he had honoured the toast, I scooted back with the glass, leaving him wiping the beads off his beard-bristles.  He was in his philosophic mood when I rejoined him at the corner.

“Wot am I?” he said, as we paced along.  “A bloomin’ cypher.  Wot’s the sarjint?  ’E’s got the Inspector over ’im.  Over above the Inspector there’s the Sooprintendent.  Over above ’im’s the old red-tape-masticatin’ Yard.  Over above that there’s the ’Ome Sec.  Wot’s ’e?  A cypher, like me.  Why?” Judlip looked up at the stars.  “Over above ‘im’s We Dunno Wot.  Somethin’ wot issues its horders an’ regulations an’ divisional injunctions, inscrootable like, but p’remptory; an’ we ’as ter see as ‘ow they’re carried out, not arskin’ no questions, but each man goin’ about ‘is dooty.’

“‘’Is dooty,’” said I, looking up from my note-book.  “Yes, I’ve got that.”

“Life ain’t a bean-feast.  It’s a ‘arsh reality.  An’ them as makes it a bean-feast ’as got to be ‘arshly dealt with accordin’.  That’s wot the Force is put ’ere for from Above.  Not as ’ow we ain’t fallible.  We makes our mistakes.  An’ when we makes ’em we sticks to ’em.  For the honour o’ the Force.  Which same is the jool Britannia wears on ’er bosom as a charm against hanarchy.  That’s wot the brarsted old Beaks don’t understand.  Yer remember Smithers of our Div?”

I remembered Smithers—­well.  As fine, upstanding, square-toed, bullet-headed, clean-living a son of a gun as ever perjured himself in the box.  There was nothing of the softy about Smithers.  I took off my billicock to Smithers’ memory.

“Sacrificed to public opinion?  Yuss,” said Judlip, pausing at a front door and flashing his 45 c.p. down the slot of a two-grade Yale.  “Sacrificed to a parcel of screamin’ old women wot ort ter ’ave gorn down on their knees an’ thanked Gawd for such a protector.  ’E’ll be out in another ’alf year.  Wot’ll ’e do then, pore devil?  Go a bust on ‘is conduc’ money an’ throw in ’is lot with them same hexperts wot ’ad a ’oly terror of ’im.”  Then Judlip swore gently.

“What should you do, O Great One, if ever it were your duty to apprehend him?”

“Do?  Why, yer blessed innocent, yer don’t think I’d shirk a fair clean cop?  Same time, I don’t say as ’ow I wouldn’t ’andle ’im tender like, for sake o’ wot ’e wos.  Likewise cos ’e’d be a stiff customer to tackle.  Likewise ’cos—­”

He had broken off, and was peering fixedly upwards at an angle of 85° across the moonlit street.  “Ullo!” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Striking an average between the direction of his eyes—­for Judlip, when on the job, has a soul-stirring squint—­I perceived someone in the act of emerging from a chimney-pot.

Judlip’s voice clove the silence.  “Wot are yer doin’ hup there?”

The person addressed came to the edge of the parapet.  I saw then that he had a hoary white beard, a red ulster with the hood up, and what looked like a sack over his shoulder.  He said something or other in a voice like a concertina that has been left out in the rain.

“I dessay,” answered my friend.  “Just you come down, an’ we’ll see about that.”

The old man nodded and smiled.  Then—­as I hope to be saved—­he came floating gently down through the moonlight, with the sack over his shoulder and a young fir-tree clasped to his chest.  He alighted in a friendly manner on the curb beside us.

Judlip was the first to recover himself.  Out went his right arm, and the airman was slung round by the scruff of the neck, spilling his sack in the road.  I made a bee-line for his shoulder-blades.  Burglar or no burglar, he was the best airman out, and I was muchly desirous to know the precise nature of the apparatus under his ulster.  A back-hander from Judlip’s left caused me to hop quickly aside.  The prisoner was squealing and whimpering.  He didn’t like the feel of Judlip’s knuckles at his cervical vertebræ.

“Wot wos yer doin’ hup there?” asked Judlip, tightening the grip.

“I’m S-Santa Claus, Sir.  P-please, Sir, let me g-go”

“Hold him,” I shouted.  “He’s a German.”

“It’s my dooty ter caution yer that wotever yer say now may be used in hevidence against yer, yer old sinner.  Pick up that there sack, an’ come along o’ me.”

The captive snivelled something about peace on earth, good will toward men.

“Yuss,” said Judlip.  “That’s in the Noo Testament, ain’t it?  The Noo Testament contains some uncommon nice readin’ for old gents an’ young ladies.  But it ain’t included in the librery o’ the Force.  We confine ourselves to the Old Testament—­O.T., ‘ot.  An’ ’ot you’ll get it.  Hup with that sack, an’ quick march!”

I have seen worse attempts at a neck-wrench, but it was just not slippery enough for Judlip.  And the kick that Judlip then let fly was a thing of beauty and a joy for ever.

“Frog’s-march him!” I shrieked, dancing.  “For the love of heaven, frog’s-march him!”

Trotting by Judlip’s side to the Station, I reckoned it out that if Slushby had not been at the Club I should not have been here to see.  Which shows that even Slushbys are put into this world for a purpose.