"You've noticed it?" said Pyecroft, and embraced him with one anaconda-
like left arm.
"Don't kill him," said Hinchcliffe briefly. "I want to show him what
twenty-three and a quarter is." We were going a fair twelve, which was
about the car's limit.
Our passenger swore something and then groaned.
"Hush, darling!" said Pyecroft, "or I'll have to hug you."
The main road, white under the noon sun, lay broad before us, running
north to Linghurst. We slowed and looked anxiously for a side track.
"And now," said I, "I want to see your authority."
"The badge of your ratin'?" Pyecroft added.
"I'm a constable," he said, and kicked. Indeed, his boots would have
bewrayed him across half a county's plough; but boots are not legal
evidence.
"I want your authority," I repeated coldly; "some evidence that you are
not a common drunken tramp."
It was as I had expected. He had forgotten or mislaid his badge. He had
neglected to learn the outlines of the work for which he received money
and consideration; and he expected me, the tax-payer, to go to infinite
trouble to supplement his deficiencies.
"If you don't believe me, come to Linghurst," was the burden of his almost
national anthem.
"But I can't run all over Sussex every time a blackmailer jumps up and
says he is a policeman."
"Why, it's quite close," he persisted.
"'Twon't be--soon," said Hinchcliffe.
"None of the other people ever made any trouble.
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