sounds seemed of greater importance.  Somewhere a drunkard, deprived of his boots, was drumming his criticism of authority on the walls of his cell.  From the next room, where the men off duty were amusing themselves, there came a steady clicking of billiard-balls and dominoes, broken now and again by gruff bursts of laughter.  And at his very elbow the superintendent was speaking in that suave voice that reminded Bennett of grey velvet.

“You see, Bennett, how matters stand.  I have nothing at all against your conduct.  You are steady and punctual, and I have no doubt that you are trying to do your duty.  But it’s very unfortunate that as far as results go you have nothing to show for your efforts.  During the last three weeks you have not brought in a charge of any description, and during the same period I find that your colleagues on the beat have been exceptionally busy.  I repeat that I do not accuse you of neglecting your duty, but these things tell with the magistrates and convey a general suggestion of slackness.”

Bennett looked down at his brightly polished boots.  His fingers were sandy and there was soft felt beneath his feet.

“I have been afraid of this for some time, sir,” he said, “very much afraid.”

The superintendent looked at him questioningly.

“You have nothing to say?” he said.

“I have always tried to do my duty, sir.”

“I know, I know.  But you must see that a certain number of charges, if not of convictions, is the mark of a smart officer.”

“Surely you would not have me arrest innocent persons?”

“That is a most improper observation,” said the superintendent severely.  “I will say no more to you now.  But I hope you will take what I have said as a warning.  You must bustle along, Bennett, bustle along.”

Outside in the street, Police-constable Bennett was free to reflect on his unpleasant interview.  The superintendent was ambitious and therefore pompous; he, himself, was unambitious and therefore modest.  Left to himself he might have been content to triumph in the reflection that he had failed to say a number of foolish things, but the welfare of his wife and children bound him, tiresomely enough for a dreamer, tightly to the practical.  It was clear that if he did not forthwith produce signs of his efficiency as a promoter of the peace that welfare would be imperilled.  Yet he did not condemn the chance that had made him a policeman or even the mischance that brought no guilty persons to his hands.  Rather he looked with a gentle curiosity into the faces of the people who passed him, and wondered why he could not detect traces of the generally assumed wickedness of the neighbourhood.  These unkempt men and women were thieves and even murderers, it appeared; but to him they shone as happy youths and maidens, joyous victims of love’s tyranny.

As he drew near the street in which he lived this sense of universal love quickened in his blood and stirred him strangely.  It did not escape his eyes that to the general his uniform was an unfriendly thing.  Men and women paused in their animated chattering till he had passed, and even the children faltered in their games to watch him with doubtful eyes.  And yet his heart was warm for them; he knew that he wished them well.