I know Tibbits’ rheumatism.  I also know he plays off his heat in the club billiard handicap to-night.  I can imagine him writhing round the table.  Still I remember the first rule of the force—­under no circumstances give another policeman away.

“You’ll have to take Dartmouth Street by yourself, Sir,” continues the Inspector.

“What’s it like?”

“Bit of a street market.  All right—­just tact and keep them moving.”

I reach Dartmouth Street.  It is a thronged smelly thoroughfare.  I pass along modestly, hoping that every one will ignore me.

But a gentleman who is selling fish detects me and calls “’Ere, Boss, move this ole geezer on.”

“What’s the trouble?” I inquire.

The old geezer turns rapidly on me. “’Ere ’e’s gone and sold me two ’errings for tuppence ’alfpenny which was that salt my ’usband went near mad, what with the pubs bein’ shut all afternoon, an’ now ’e’s popped the fender jus’ to get rid of ’is thirst.”

“I told you to soak ’em in three waters,” says the fishmonger.

“’Ow much beer is my ’usband to soak ’imself in—­tell me that?”

It is time for tact.  I whisper in the lady’s ear, “Come along—­don’t argue with a man like that.  He’s beneath you.”

She comes away.  I am triumphant.  But she turns round and cries, “This gentleman as is a gentleman says I ain’t to lower meself by talkin’ to a ’ound like you.”

I move on.  I doubt if the fishmonger will be pleased by the lady’s representation of my few words, and I make a mental note to keep away from his stall.  All at once another lady, who for some obscure reason is carrying a bucket, grips me by the arm.

“I’m goin’ to ’ave the law on my side, I am,” she declares emphatically, “an’ then I’ll smash ‘is bloomin’ fice in.”

I am swayed towards a fruit-stall.

“Look at them,” says the irate lady, holding out three potatoes.  “Rotten—­at thrippence a pound.  My ’usband ’e’d ’ave set abaht me if I’d give ’im them for ’is dinner.”

The fruiterer takes a lofty moral standard.  “I sold yer them fer seed pertaters, I did.  If yer ’usband eats them ’e’s worse than a Un.”

“Seed pertaters, was they?  Where was I to grow ’em?  In a mug on the mantelpiece?”

“’Ow was I ter know yer ’adn’t a ’lotment?”

“You’ll need no ’lotment.  It’s a cemet’ry you’ll want when my ’usband knows you’ve called ’im a Un.”

“Now, now,” I interpose tactfully.  “Perhaps you can exchange them, then you’ll have the lady for a regular customer.”

“I don’t want the blighter fer a reglar customer,” says the fruiterer.

Three potatoes whirl past me at the fruiterer.  The lady with the bucket departs rapidly.

“Lemme get at ’er,” cries the irate fruiterer.

“You wouldn’t hit a woman,” I protest.

“Wouldn’t I?” says the infuriated fruiterer.