“I only want the badge, or warrant, or whatever it is a plain-clothes man has to show.”
He made as though to produce it, but checked himself, repeating less politely the invitation to Linghurst. The action and the tone confirmed my many-times tested theory that the bulk of English shoregoing institutions are based on conformable strata of absolutely impervious inaccuracy. I reflected and became aware of a drumming on the back of the front seat that Pyecroft, bowed forward and relaxed, was tapping with his knuckles. The hardly-checked fury on Hinchcliffe’s brow had given place to a greasy imbecility, and he nodded over the steering-bar. In longs and shorts, as laid down by the pious and immortal Mr. Morse, Pyecroft tapped out, “Sham drunk. Get him in the car.”
“I can’t stay here all day,” said the constable.
Pyecroft raised his head. Then was seen with what majesty the British sailor-man envisages a new situation.
“Met gennelman heavy sheeway,” said he. “Do tell me British gelman can’t give ’ole Brish Navy lif’ own blighted ste’ cart. Have another drink!”
“I didn’t know they were as drunk as all that when they stopped me,” I explained.
“You can say all that at Linghurst,” was the answer. “Come on.”
“Quite right,” I said. “But the question is, if you take these two out on the road, they’ll fall down or start killing you.”
“Then I’d call on you to assist me in the execution o’ my duty.”
“But I’d see you further first. You’d better come with us in the car. I’ll turn this passenger out.” (This was my engineer, sitting quite silent.) “You don’t want him, and, anyhow, he’d only be a witness for the defence.”