"Who's the owner?"
I indicated myself.
"Then I want you as well as the two seafaring men. Drunk and disorderly
can be treated summary. You come on."
My relations with the Sussex constabulary have, so far, been of the best,
but I could not love this person.
"Of course you have your authority to show?" I hinted.
"I'll show it you at Linghurst," he retorted hotly----"all the authority
you want."
"I only want the badge, or warrant, or whatever it is a plain-clothes man
has to show."
He made as though to produce it, but checked himself, repeating less
politely the invitation to Linghurst. The action and the tone confirmed my
many-times tested theory that the bulk of English shoregoing institutions
are based on conformable strata of absolutely impervious inaccuracy. I
reflected and became aware of a drumming on the back of the front seat
that Pyecroft, bowed forward and relaxed, was tapping with his knuckles.
The hardly-checked fury on Hinchcliffe's brow had given place to a greasy
imbecility, and he nodded over the steering-bar. In longs and shorts, as
laid down by the pious and immortal Mr. Morse, Pyecroft tapped out, "Sham
drunk. Get him in the car."
"I can't stay here all day," said the constable.
Pyecroft raised his head. Then was seen with what majesty the British
sailor-man envisages a new situation.
"Met gennelman heavy sheeway," said he. "Do tell me British gelman can't
give 'ole Brish Navy lif' own blighted ste' cart.
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