CHAPTER II
THE MISFORTUNES OF A B.A. OF LONDON UNIVERSITY
IT was Sunday night, or rather in the early darkness of the small hours of Monday morning, that Police-Constable Hobbs wended his slow and deliberate way down the vista of Walker Street. Why the force are trained to step with a measured tread, which proclaims their personality minutes before their arrival, is one of those questions only to be answered by the benevolent supposition that Authority is anxious to warn Criminality that it is coming!
The constable had a dejected air, he put no energy into the trying of doors and windows, and even the sight of a drunk going by short tacks up Junction Street did not restore his animation.
“Never get a chance!” he muttered to himself; “never get a chance. In the force three years and only a common constable and a B.A. of London University, too! What’s the use of education, anyway? Now, if I was only ignorant enough I might be a Member of Parliament, or perhaps a Minister of the Crown. But to spend years of time and bags of money to end as a policeman is enough to make a man sick. If I was only a sergeant now it would not be so bad. But on the Shore ability has no show, never a burglary worth speaking of, and as for a good murder such a thing is unheard of. I really don’t know what possesses the people. If it was not for a few old reliable drunks that I can always run in in case of need, I should have got the sack for incompetency long ago. Over in Sydney, how different! Hardly a night but some chap has a turn, and not a paltry drunk with nothing in his pockets either.”
By this time the speaker had arrived at the top of that long flight of steps that runs down the steep hill at the foot of Walker Street to the wharf at Lavender Bay. Here he paused a while, and his talk to himself took a new turn.
“Shall I or shan’t I have a smoke? It is an hour before I have to meet the Sergeant. Shall I waste it in a profitless round of deserted streets and lanes, or have a quiet whiff in the bushes there? I will put the motion to the meeting, as our chairman used to say. Decidedly I think the ‘ayes’ have it. Then here’s for a smoke.”
Saying this he drew a short black pipe from some hidden pocket, charged it with tobacco, and descending the steps a short distance, turned into the bushes on his left. He was just about to strike a light when the figure of a man started up before him and rushed forward.
Without hesitation the policeman took up the chase thus offered. It was too dark to see very clearly, but the fugitive appeared to be a young active man carrying a bag. Now such a character does not go tearing around a quiet suburb like North Shore at four o’clock in the morning with an honest motive. So at least thought P.-C. Hobbs, and he shouted “Stop!” and went at his best handicap speed to overtake the fugitive. But this person, far from stopping or losing in the race, had now turned some corner of stone or bush, and when the constable came out in the open ground beyond the bushes he found his prey had fled.
Not a sound, not a sign. The earth might have closed on him.
More disconsolate than ever, Hobbs retraced his steps.
“Just my luck—the same old luck! The only kind of a chance I have had for a month, and it slips through my fingers.”
Going not far from the steps he sat concealed in the bushes, and puffed his pipe. And it seemed to him as he gazed through the fumes of Black Jack, that his previous view of things had been pessimistic—his turn would come some day. North Shore could not for ever remain so ferociously virtuous. A time might come when theft, even, perhaps, a good murder might occur on his beat. And then people would learn that it was not for nothing that he had qualified as B.A. at London University.
The dusky light and cold air of dawn now made our philosopher consider the time come to proceed on his round. Already fish-buyers and news-vendors were descending the steps to proceed by the first boat. The steamer was at the wharf puffing out steam as Hobbs looked down on her from the steps.
But stay! Who is that who rushes out from the bushes next the baths and dives at full speed down the slope?
It is THE MAN WITH THE BAG!
Like a flash our policeman again starts in pursuit. This time he says to himself, “The man is mine!”
Vain hope! Even as he rushes into the waiting-room the ferry-boat has cast off and left the wharf. He sees the man with the bag make a desperate leap over a yawning chasm of green sea and white foam, and land safely on the deck. And when he arrives it is only to be greeted by the derisive jeers of the little crowd of passengers.
Slowly he returns up the steps. Shall he report the matter to the Sergeant? It might gain him credit, and the information might prove of use. On the other hand, the Sergeant might want to know what he wanted at that part of his beat at that particular time. And the question would be awkward.
This is how it came about that the police records are bare of any mention of the vain chase by P.-C. Hobbs of a suspicious character carrying a bag.