“‘’Is dooty,’” said I, looking up from my note-book.  “Yes, I’ve got that.”

“Life ain’t a bean-feast.  It’s a ‘arsh reality.  An’ them as makes it a bean-feast ’as got to be ‘arshly dealt with accordin’.  That’s wot the Force is put ’ere for from Above.  Not as ’ow we ain’t fallible.  We makes our mistakes.  An’ when we makes ’em we sticks to ’em.  For the honour o’ the Force.  Which same is the jool Britannia wears on ’er bosom as a charm against hanarchy.  That’s wot the brarsted old Beaks don’t understand.  Yer remember Smithers of our Div?”

I remembered Smithers—­well.  As fine, upstanding, square-toed, bullet-headed, clean-living a son of a gun as ever perjured himself in the box.  There was nothing of the softy about Smithers.  I took off my billicock to Smithers’ memory.

“Sacrificed to public opinion?  Yuss,” said Judlip, pausing at a front door and flashing his 45 c.p. down the slot of a two-grade Yale.  “Sacrificed to a parcel of screamin’ old women wot ort ter ’ave gorn down on their knees an’ thanked Gawd for such a protector.  ’E’ll be out in another ’alf year.  Wot’ll ’e do then, pore devil?  Go a bust on ‘is conduc’ money an’ throw in ’is lot with them same hexperts wot ’ad a ’oly terror of ’im.”  Then Judlip swore gently.

“What should you do, O Great One, if ever it were your duty to apprehend him?”

“Do?  Why, yer blessed innocent, yer don’t think I’d shirk a fair clean cop?  Same time, I don’t say as ’ow I wouldn’t ’andle ’im tender like, for sake o’ wot ’e wos.  Likewise cos ’e’d be a stiff customer to tackle.  Likewise ’cos—­”

He had broken off, and was peering fixedly upwards at an angle of 85 deg. across the moonlit street.  “Ullo!” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Striking an average between the direction of his eyes—­for Judlip, when on the job, has a soul-stirring squint—­I perceived someone in the act of emerging from a chimney-pot.

Judlip’s voice clove the silence.  “Wot are yer doin’ hup there?”

The person addressed came to the edge of the parapet.  I saw then that he had a hoary white beard, a red ulster with the hood up, and what looked like a sack over his shoulder.  He said something or other in a voice like a concertina that has been left out in the rain.

“I dessay,” answered my friend.  “Just you come down, an’ we’ll see about that.”

The old man nodded and smiled.  Then—­as I hope to be saved—­he came floating gently down through the moonlight, with the sack over his shoulder and a young fir-tree clasped to his chest.  He alighted in a friendly manner on the curb beside us.

Judlip was the first to recover himself.  Out went his right arm, and the airman was slung round by the scruff of the neck, spilling his sack in the road.  I made a bee-line for his shoulder-blades.  Burglar or no burglar, he was the best airman out, and I was muchly desirous to know the precise nature of the apparatus under his ulster.  A back-hander from Judlip’s left caused me to hop quickly aside.  The prisoner was squealing and whimpering.  He didn’t like the feel of Judlip’s knuckles at his cervical vertebrae.