Missing his reserves, Sergeant McNally had sent the roundsman in search of them. He was slow in returning, and the sergeant went on a tour of inspection himself. He journeyed to the upper region, and there came upon the party in full swing. Then and there he called the roll. Not one of the platoon was missing.
They formed a hollow square around something that looked uncommonly like a beer-keg. A number of tin growlers stood beside it. The sergeant picked up one and turned the tap. There was enough left in the keg to barely half fill it. Seeing that, the platoon followed him down-stairs without a murmur.
One by one the twenty took the stand after the sergeant had left it, and testified without a tremor that they had seen no beer-keg. In fact, the majority would not know one if they saw it. They were tired and hungry, having been held in reserve all day, when a pleasant smell assailed their nostrils.
Each of the twenty followed his nose independently to the top floor, where he was surprised to see the rest gathered about a pot of steaming chowder. He joined the circle and partook of some. It was good. As to beer, he had seen none and drunk less. There was something there of wood with a brass handle to it. What it was none of them seemed to know. They were all shocked at the idea that it might have been a beer-keg. Such things are forbidden in police stations.
The sergeant himself could not tell how it could have got in there, while stoutly maintaining that it was a keg. He scratched his head and concluded that it might have come over the roof or, somehow, from a building that is in course of erection next door. The chowder had come in by the main door. At least, one policeman had seen it carried up-stairs. He had fallen in behind it immediately.
When the commissioner had heard this story told exactly twenty times the platoon fell in and marched off to the elevated station. When he can decide what punishment to inflict on a policeman who does not know a beer-keg when he sees it, they all will be fined accordingly, and a door-man who has served a term as a barkeeper will be sent to the East One Hundred and Fourth street station to keep the police there out of harm’s way.
SPOONING IN DYNAMITE ALLEY
Dynamite Alley is bereft. Its spring spooning is over. Once more the growler has the right of way. But what good is it, with Kate Cassidy hiding in her third floor back, her “steady” hiding from the police, and Tom Hart laid up in hospital with two of his “slats stove in,” all along of their “spieling”? There will be nothing now to heave a brick at on a dark night, and no chance for a row for many a day to come. No wonder Dynamite Alley is out of sorts.