Sharp round a corner on the way home, I collided with something firmer than the regulation pillar-box.  I righted myself after the recoil and saw some stars that were very pretty indeed.  Then I perceived the nature of the obstruction.

“Evening, Judlip,” I said sweetly, when I had collected my hat from the gutter.  “Have I broken the law, Judlip?  If so, I’ll go quiet.”

“Time yer was in bed,” grunted X, 36.  “Yer Ma’ll be lookin’ out for yer.”

This from the friend of my bosom!  It hurt.  Many were the night-beats I had been privileged to walk with Judlip, imbibing curious lore that made glad the civilian heart of me.  Seven whole 8x5 inch note-books had I pitmanised to the brim with Judlip.  And now to be repulsed as one of the uninitiated!  It hurt horrid.

There is a thing called Dignity.  Small boys sometimes stand on it.  Then they have to be kicked.  Then they get down, weeping.  I don’t stand on Dignity.

“What’s wrong, Judlip?” I asked, more sweetly than ever.  “Drawn a blank to-night?”

“Yuss.  Drawn a blank blank blank.  ’Avent ’ad so much as a kick at a lorst dorg.  Christmas Eve ain’t wot it was.”  I felt for my note-book.  “Lawd!  I remembers the time when the drunks and disorderlies down this street was as thick as flies on a fly-paper.  One just picked ’em orf with one’s finger and thumb.  A bloomin’ battew, that’s wot it wos.”

“The night’s yet young, Judlip,” I insinuated, with a jerk of my thumb at the flaring windows of the “Rat and Blood Hound.”  At that moment the saloon-door swung open, emitting a man and woman who walked with linked arms and exceeding great care.

Judlip eyed them longingly as they tacked up the street.  Then he sighed.  Now, when Judlip sighs the sound is like unto that which issues from the vent of a Crosby boiler when the cog-gauges are at 260 deg.  F.

“Come, Judlip!” I said.  “Possess your soul in patience.  You’ll soon find someone to make an example of.  Meanwhile”—­I threw back my head and smacked my lips—­“the usual, Judlip?”

In another minute I emerged through the swing-door, bearing a furtive glass of that same “usual,” and nipped down the mews where my friend was wont to await these little tokens of esteem.

“To the Majesty of the Law, Judlip!”

When he had honoured the toast, I scooted back with the glass, leaving him wiping the beads off his beard-bristles.  He was in his philosophic mood when I rejoined him at the corner.

“Wot am I?” he said, as we paced along.  “A bloomin’ cypher.  Wot’s the sarjint?  ’E’s got the Inspector over ’im.  Over above the Inspector there’s the Sooprintendent.  Over above ’im’s the old red-tape-masticatin’ Yard.  Over above that there’s the ’Ome Sec.  Wot’s ’e?  A cypher, like me.  Why?” Judlip looked up at the stars.  “Over above ‘im’s We Dunno Wot.  Somethin’ wot issues its horders an’ regulations an’ divisional injunctions, inscrootable like, but p’remptory; an’ we ’as ter see as ‘ow they’re carried out, not arskin’ no questions, but each man goin’ about ‘is dooty.’