During a severe winter drought, Inspector Sarde's mother sent him a case of eggs. As far as one could see it was quite in order that Mrs. Sarde should send twelve dozen eggs to her abstemious son in partibus infidelium, where luxuries are scarce. They were packed in salt, shipped C.O.D. by express, forwarded from Fort Benton in the stage sleigh, consigned per I. G. Baker and carried to Sarde's quarters by a constable on fatigue. That was I.
In course of duty, I just bumped the eggs to see if they were "fragile" as advertised on the case, and at once there arose a perfume which no police constable could possibly ignore. Did hens, I wondered, lay eggs filled with whisky? Or having laid eggs full of meat did the hens blow them, fill them with comfort, and seal them up with wax? Or had they matured on the way? Or was an officer, a justice of the peace, importing illicit refreshments? Would they be good for Sarde? Was it not my duty to save the officers' mess from making a beast of itself?
I took that case to the barrack room and submitted it to a board of constables, who pronounced each several egg to contain more than two and five-tenths per cent. of alcohol, and resolved to compensate the owner for that disgusting state of intoxication to which he was no longer liable. The case was therefore reloaded with a dead cat, and a puppy of last year's vintage, and a twelve horse-power bouquet on which we laid an epitaph in verse.
"Toll for the eggs
The eggs which are no more
All sunk within the Braves
Fast by their destined shore.
We were not in the bottle,
No barrel met the shock,
We sprang a fatal leak,
We ran on Duty's Rock.
These are but cat and pup,
Not alcoholic eggs,
So weigh the vessel up;
Stand firm upon your legs:
Then boil the tea and pass it round
To the Guardians of our Land,
You bet your life it's not our fault
That whisky's contraband!"
Next day at morning stables, Inspector Sarde, being orderly officer, put all the duty men under arrest for making chicken talk when told to answer names. He said he was surprised.
Afterward, at breakfast time, he opened his case of refreshments, which stampeded the officers' mess. He really was surprised.
Before office, old Wormy, our officer commanding, sent for Mr. Sarde. "My yong frien', how you charge my mans for dronk on catan'puppy, hein? Or you say dronk on veeskeyegg. Whose veeskeyegg? Yours? How you come by dose veeskeyegg? Where you get, hein? Bien, M'sieu L'Inspecteur Veeskey-smoggle! Sacre mo'jew Ba'teme. Damn!"
So we were all released without trial, but Mr. Sarde would like to see Constable la Mancha at his quarters. I told the orderly sergeant that I was suffering from severe alcoholic depression, but all the same I was paraded up before the bereaved inspector.
"My man," said Mr. Sarde, "you know that a commissioned officer can not threaten a constable."
I was shocked at the very idea.