“Oh, wirra! wirra!” sobbed the old woman; “you’ve kilt my boy. He’s very bad with small-pox, ochone! ochone! and the doctor said only this blissid mornin’ that he wasn’t to be wuck at all, at all. It only bruck on him last night, an’ it’s a beautiful pock you have, avick machree; and now—”
But that head constable had leaped ten feet backward clean out of the house, and was licking all previous racing records up the boreen, with his handkerchief to his nose, and his followers tearing after him like a pack of hungry fox-hounds. Talk of Myers, the great Yankee runner! He would have been left in the cold that day.
You may be sure it wasn’t long before the whole story of how Moran fooled the head constable went the rounds of the country. It came to Smithers’ own ears at last, and from that hour he was an altered man. He would retire into the woods to vent his feelings, and people who heard him sometimes say that his oaths would lift the hair on the scalp of an Egyptian mummy. The more he brooded, the more he cursed. There never was a curse, English, Irish, or American, that he didn’t get hold of, and he invented such a lot of brand-new, original, comic, pathetic, eccentric, square, round, oblong, elliptical, severely plain, and highly ornamented or convoluted profane pyrotechnics that a perfume of sulphur and brimstone seemed to hang around his conversation. The habit so crept upon him that when he wished at last to shake it off, he couldn’t. His tongue had grown so accustomed to decorative blasphemy that it could utter nothing else. It became a matter of anxious consideration to him how he was to eliminate from his conversation the picturesque adjectives it would under ordinary circumstances have taken him thirty years to accumulate. He consulted a friendly sub. “Smith,” said he, “I have a [powerful expletive not to be found in any polite guide to conversation] bad habit.”
“Only one,” said his brother official; “that’s nothing. A man who has been on the force ten years and has only acquired one bad habit, has wasted his opportunities.”
“Well, but this is one that is likely to get me into a blank blank [double-barrelled adjective] muss in society some fine day. You see I can’t speak ten words without cursing. If I can, —— my eyes!” [ophthalmic operation not recognized in modern surgery].
“Ah,” said Harvey Duff 2; “you must repress that custom. It’s low.”
“How the —— [distant region occasionally alluded to in sermons and theological disquisitions] can I?”
His colleague cogitated. When a policeman cogitates, there are enough scintillations of intellect flashing round to illuminate the interior of an Egyptian pyramid. The result of his meditation was his advice to Smithers to take a pocket-book, and every time he transgressed to take a note of the offence. In twelve hours he had filled up two three-hundred-page memorandum books, and used up a dozen and a half of pencils. It became irksome pottering round with a note-book in one hand and a stick of lead in the other entering everlasting ejaculations; he wore the skin off his fingers, and, besides, he couldn’t keep up with himself, and he missed cataloguing a few score emphatic expressions every five minutes. He adopted another plan. He arranged with his wife that every time he articulated forbidden sounds he should hand her over a penny. He provided himself with £5 in coppers the first day of the arrangement, but he hadn’t a red cent by noon, and in three days he had parted with all his ready cash, made over his next year’s income, and didn’t even own the boots he stood in. Then he agreed with his better half that she should pluck a hair out of his head every time he offended, and now if there’s a more bald-headed man to be found on this side the day of judgment, I’m willing to turn cannibal, and eat him.
His habit attracted the attention of his superiors at last, when his report began to resemble his verbal utterances, and they reprimanded him sharply. He replied in a letter that is preserved in the official archives as a sample of what the English language is capable of. The reading of it drove two Castle authorities mad, and sent the third into a galloping consumption. Well, that’s how Smithers left the force. Strange story, ain’t it?