SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. by Francis Selwyn

the shingle in the direction of Shoreham.
    At last he found the hem of
the canvas, struggled under it, threw it clear, and stood up. He was surrounded
by a ring of spectators. Looking round for Bella and the others, his eye fell
first of all on a stern figure. In its tall hat and long belted tunic,
handcuffs and rattle at the side, it was unmistakeable. Worse still, its face
was unfamiliar, not one of the uniformed constables of Brighton with whom
Verity had so far struck up an acquaintance.
    'Well then,' said the figure aggressively. 'What's all
this?'
    'Quick!'
Verity gasped. 'Him! Running away over there! He's the one you want!'
    The constable looked at him disdainfully.
    'We
can find him any time,' he said gruffly. 'It's you I want!'
    Verity shook his head.
    'I’m police officer,' he panted.
    'Oh
yes!' said the constable. 'Forget your uniform? Get them hands behind your
back! You're a bloody hooligan, that's what!'
    Verity was too winded to
resist the handcuffs. In any case two stalwart volunteers from the crowd had
his arms behind him and the metal cuffs bit into his wrists.
    'Listen!'
howled Verity. 'I gotta warrant card somewhere! I'm here to keep the peace,
same as you!'
    The
uniformed constable looked round at the crumpled tent and its shattered
contents.
    'Oh
yes?' he said again with the same casual disdain. 'This your idea of peace, is
it? Get walking!'
    And then, to crown Verity's
wretchedness, there was a cry as Bella pushed her way through the crowd with
the rest of his little family following sheepishly behind her.
    The procession to the Market
Street lock-up was a public humiliation which lived long in his mind. Behind
him and his captor walked an interested crowd. Bella a few paces away was
weeping silently. Billy in his leading-reins and little Vicki in Ruth's arms
were bawling in unison, as if divining their father's disgrace by their
mother's tears. Ruth, her pretty brown eyes wide with dismay, followed with
Stringfellow. Of all the family, it was the old cabman who took the reverse of
their fortunes most calmly. From time to time he fetched out the half sovereign
and looked at it thirstily as it lay in his palm. Presently he turned to Ruth
beside him. Finger and thumb took a soft fold of her face gently and shook it
with roguish familiarity. He glanced back for the last time at the ruins of the
Great Lavengro's premises. Then he patted Ruth forward again.
    'No good do come of these
things as a rule,' he said philosophically. 'No good whatsoever!'
     
     
     
     
     
    5
    'Aggravated
assault!' Inspector Henry Croaker looked up from the chair in which he sat.
With his small dark eyes, his face yellow as a fallen leaf, his leather stock
buttoned up tight, he almost laughed in his glee. Verity, bare-headed and
red-faced, stood rigidly at attention before the desk. The room, in the police
office of Brighton Town Hall was unfamiliar, but the routine was one which he
had undergone a dozen times during Croaker's command of the Private-Clothes
Detail.
    The
inspector was swallowing greedily, in anticipation of his triumph. This time,
at least, the matter was beyond doubt. The Great Lavengro had been beaten by
the fat sergeant before a crowd of witnesses, including a member of the local
constabulary.
    ‘Dismissal!'
cried Croaker. 'Proceedings on a charge of felony!' In his total rapture, he
almost sang the words to his victim. Verity struggled to retain his composure,
though he knew well that his future in the detail had never seemed as black as
now.
    'Wasn't like that,
sir. With respect, sir.'
    'No?' said Croaker softly.
'Then tell me how it was, sergeant.'
    'He
said things about Mrs Verity, sir. Things about her having behaved in a
indecent manner before marriage, sir! Dancing in them penny gaffs, sir!'
    'Indeed?' The words were
almost chuckling from the inspector's lips. 'And was he right, sergeant?'
    Verity's flushed cheeks darkened to a port-wine shade.
    'Mrs Verity is a pattern of
purity and womanhood, sir.