“That thing they’re singing. Mine. My election song.”
It seemed to me that the officer regarded me strangely. It may have been admiration, but it looked more like disappointment and disfavour.
“You on this Lawlor’s side?” he demanded, heavily.
“Yes. I wrote his election song. They’re singing it now.”
“I’m opposed to ’im in toto and root and branch,” said the constable, emphatically, “I don’t like ’is views—subversive, that’s what I call ’em. Subversive.”
There seemed nothing to say to this. This divergence of opinion was unfortunate, but there it was. After all, there was no reason why political differences should have to interfere with what had all the appearance of being the dawning of a beautiful friendship. Pass over it lightly, that was the tactful course. I endeavoured to steer the conversation gently back to less debatable grounds.
“This is my first visit to Redbridge,” I said, chattily.
“Ur?” said the constable, but I could see that he was not interested. He finished his cigarette with three rapid puffs and stamped it out. And as he did so a strange, purposeful tenseness seemed to come over him. His boiled-fish eyes seemed to say that the time of dalliance was now ended and constabulary duty was to be done. “Is that the way to the platform, mister?” he asked, indicating my door with a jerk of the helmet.
I cannot say why it was, but at this moment a sudden foreboding swept over me.
“Why do you want to go on the platform?” I asked, apprehensively.