‘But aiblins he’s ane o’ oor ain polis,’ said the man of suspicions.
‘Nane o’ oor polis has the gumption; and him as fou as a fiddler.’
Merton, waving his glass, swallowed its contents at three gulps. He then fell on the floor, scrambled to his feet, tumbled out, and dashed his own whisky bottle through the window of the refreshment room.
‘Me ane o’ the polis!’ he yelled, and was staggering towards the exit, when he was collared by two policemen, attracted by the noise. He embraced one of them, murmuring ‘ma bonny Jean!’ and then doubled up, his head lolling on his shoulder. His legs and arms jerked convulsively, and he had at last to be carried off, in the manner known as ‘The Frog’s March,’ by four members of the force. The roughs followed, like chief mourners, Merton thought, at the head of the attendant crowd.
‘There’s an end o’ your clash about the English gentleman,’ Merton heard the quieter of his late companions observe to the obstinate inquirer. ‘But he’s a bonny singer. And noo, wull ye tell me hoo we’re to win back to Drem the nicht?’
‘Dod, we’ll make a nicht o’t,’ said the other, as Merton was carried into the police-station.
He permitted himself to be lifted into one of the cells, and then remarked, in the most silvery tones:
‘Very many thanks, my good men. I need not give you any more trouble, except by asking you, if possible, to get me some hot water and soap, and to invite the inspector to favour me with his company.’
The men nearly dropped Merton, but, finding his feet, he stood up and smiled blandly.
‘Pray make no apologies,’ he said. ‘It is rather I who ought to apologise.’