For forty minutes the policeman on duty outside Waterloo Station had been keeping under observation a rather dejected-looking bluejacket carrying a bundle, who stood at the corner scrutinising the buses as they passed. Finally, with deliberate measured tread he approached the man of the sea.
“What bus do you want, mate?”
Mr. Pettigrew enlightened him as to the number.
“There’s been four of that number gone past while you was standin’ ’ere,” said the policeman, not without suspicion in his tones.
“I’m very partickler about buses,” said Mr. Pettigrew coldly.
“Well,” said the constable, “’ere’s another one.”
The sailor waited till it slowed up abreast of them. His blue eyes were cocked on the rear end.
“An’ this ’ere’s the right one,” said Mr. Pettigrew.
He stepped briskly into the roadway, ran half a dozen paces, and swung himself on to the footboard beside the conductress.
