“No, you shan’t,” said the policeman; “I sticks to my beat.”
COOKS FOLLOWERS.
“If you sticks so hard, you’ll grow to the spot,” said the guard, sulkily.
“Then I’ll be a beetroot,” said the policeman.
“So you are, with your red and green.”
The policeman seemed determined not to help them, when the guard at last said, in desperation, “If anything happens to that ’ere train, it’ll be a pretty kettle of fish, for there’s a Cooke’s excursion in it.”
“Cooks and fish!” shouted the policeman; “why didn’t you say so before? If there’s cooks in the train, I’m your man. Come on; cooks without followers is no good; let’s after ’em at once.”
So saying, he whipped up Jaques and Ranulf under one arm, and Norval under the other, and bidding the guard hold on by his coat-tails, started off after the train. His long legs went over the ground at a tremendous pace, and as they flew by, the people in the houses rushed out to behold the sight of a policeman running, for they are generally slow enough, as everybody knows. One old ploughman scratched his head as they sped past, and muttered, “A’ve offen ’eard as how p’licemen’s never in an ’urry, but that un goes like an ’urricane, he do.”
“Yes,” said another old man, “police rates are as slow as they’re heavy generally.”