“Old King Cole was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he—­ He called for his pipe, and he called for his glass, And he called for his old M.P.”

Outside the blizzard still moaned and howled; every now and then, between lulls, screeching gusts of sleet beat upon the windows.  The parrot, clinging upside down to the roof of its cage, winked rapidly with Sphinx-like eyes and inclined its head sideways in an intent listening attitude.

“Eyah! but th’ Force’s a bloomin’ good home to some of you, all th’ same,” growled McCullough.  “Listen to that ‘norther’? . . .  How’d you like to be chucked out into th’ cold, cold world right now?—­You, Hardy! that’s never done nothin’ but ‘soldier’ all your life—­you, Reddy! with your ’collidge edukashun’?”

George, unmoved, listened respectfully awhile, lying on his stomach with his chin cupped in his hands.  “Must have been a great bunch of fellows when you first took on the Force, Dave?” he queried presently.

From sheer force of habit the old policeman glanced at his interlocutor suspiciously.  But that young gentleman’s face appearing open and serene, merely expressing naive interest, he grunted an affirmative “Uh-huh!” and backed his conviction with a cheerful oath.

“Ah, they sure was.  But where are they all now?” he rambled on in garrulous reminiscence, “some of ’em rich—­some of ’em broke—­an’ many of ‘em back on th’ old Force again, an’ glad to get their rations.  There was some that talked like you, Mister Bloomin’ Reddy!—­fed up, an’ goin’ to quit—­an’ did quit—­for a time.  There was Corky Jones, I mind.  Him that used to blow ‘bout th’ wonderful jobs he’d got th’ pick of when he was ‘time-ex.’  All he got was ‘reeve’ of some little shi-poke burg down south.  Hooshomin its real name, but they mostly call it Hootch thereabouts.  A rotten little dump of ’bout fifty inhabitants.  They’re drunk half th’ time an’ wear each other’s clothes.  Ugh! filthy beggars! . . .  He’s back on th’ Force again.  There was Gadgett Malone.  Proper dog he was—­used to sing ‘Love me, an’ th’ World is Mine.’  He got all balled up with a widder, first crack out o’ th’ box, an’ she shook him down for his roll an’ put th’ skids under him in great shape inside of a month.  He’s back on th’ Force again.  There was Barton McGuckin.  When he pulled out he shook hands all around, I mind.  Yes, sir! with tears in his eyes he did.  Told us no matter how high he rose in th’ world he’d never forget his old comrades—­always rec’gnize ’em on th’ street an’ all that.  On his way down town he was fool enough to go into one o’ these here Romany Pikey dives for to get his fortune told.  This gypsy woman threw it into him he was goin’ to make his fortune in th’ next two or three days by investin’ his dough in a certain brand of oil shares. . . .”

McCullough paused and filled his pipe with elaborate care, “Th’ last time I see him he was in th’ buildin’ an’ contractin’ line—­carryin’ a hod an’ pushin’ an Irishman’s buggy . . .  There’s—­but, aw hell! what’s th’ use o’ talkin’?” he concluded disgustedly.  “No! times ain’t what they was, by gum!—­rough stuff an’ all things was run more real reg’mental them days—­not half th’ grousin’ either.”