# A Special Effort

Extracted from Everybody's Magazine, Jan 1921, pp. 49-53. Accompanying illustrations by Arthur Garrett may be omitted.
A Special Effort
By George Robey
The favorite of laughter-loving London theatre-goers, who combines the talents of versatile comedian, author-humorist, and popular entertainer, writes a sketch of a special constable's unprecedented efforts to preserve the peace. His philosophically disposed copper, who turns the other cheek in the face of attack and meets the most pressing emergencies with five-pound notes, is a fresh and amusing contribution to current fiction.
“GEORGE, dear,” said my wife, “I've been reading your 'Reminiscences' again.”
I was touched by this proof of the deep interest my wife takes in all that concerns me. I said so.
“Yes, dear,” she replied, “and I am more ever convinced that you have been too reserved. You have left too many things untold; things the public ought to be told.”
“You know how I dislike boasting,” I reminded her.
My wife looked at me with fond admiration. At least, I think that was what it was.
“Yes, dear, I know,” she said. “But are a public character, and you must allow false modesty to come between you and the public's idea of you. They to see you as you really are. They to know all you've done.”
“I would rather they didn't know,” I remarked.
“Why, father?” asked George Junior, “Could they put you in prison?”
I told George not to be an idiot. I am sometimes afraid the boy is not very intelligent. For a lad of his age he shows an extraordinary lack of perception. He appears to have only the vaguest conception of my character, for instance.
My wife was thoughtless enough to laugh at George's mistake. But I could see she regretted it immediately afterward, for she remarked in a serious tone:
“Your father, George, can do no wrong. Always remember that. It is the foundation of family life.”
“The public,” continued my wife, “ought to know how you did your duty as a Special, George—and how you suffered for it.”
I uttered a modest disclaimer. I told her that I did not wish to parade my actions before the world.
“Then if you won't, I will!” cried my wife. “I will write the story of Paradise Row!”
I gazed at her in consternation.
“I insist upon writing it,” said my wife eagerly. “It is only right that some record of these things should be left for posterity, George. Posterity,” she went on with growing enthusiasm, “shall see you with my eyes.”
“The Lord forbid!” I ejaculated.
“Why, George, darling, whatever do you mean?” my wife inquired in a tone of intense surprise. “I am sure the public would be delighted with my picture of you.”
“I am sure they would,” I agreed. “But I do not wish the public to have a picture biased by wifely devotion. I don't want rubbish and hysteria of that sort brought in.”
“Oh, George!” pleaded my wife.
“No,” I told her firmly. “In my relations with the public, sentiment has got to be left out entirely. Sooner than allow you to drag in sentiment, I will write the bally story of Paradise Row myself.”
AFTER all, perhaps my wife is right. It ought to be done. For the sake of posterity, therefore, I pen this record of my first night as a Special.
When they detailed me off for duty in Paradise Row, a small street in the East End of London, I said I was glad. My brother constables at the station seemed surprised. They did not think I ought to be glad. I told than I was interested in the East End. It was there that one saw life—the warm, pulsating life of the people, stripped of the shallow veneer of the more sophisticated residential suburbs.
My brother constables nudged each other and grinned. They said that if warm, pulsating life was what I wanted, I should most likely get it in Paradise Row.
At first sight of the place I was bitterly disappointed. It was a quiet street of small houses, looking serene and peaceful in the moonlight. The inhabitants appeared to be wrapped in slumber.
I reflected that I was the guardian of that peaceful street. These slumbering souls had been entrusted to my care. They were a sacred charge. Filled with that uplifting thought, I paced the length of the street and back again, fingering my whistle and from time to time unsheathing my truncheon to assure myself that it would slip in and out at a moment's notice should I require it.
I could not help wishing that something would happen—something that would enable me to show my mettle, to prove to myself and to the world that it was not in vain that I had answered the call of king and country.
For a time, nothing stirred: the only sign of life a black cat curled up upon a doorstep.
My gaze wandered from the black cat upon the doorstep to the geraniums neatly ranged in pots upon the window-ledge. I mused for a while upon the pleasant contrast of the black fur and the vivid green and red of the flowers. Then my attention was attracted by the figure of a small boy in the distance.
The boy was hurrying toward me, and as he drew nearer, I realized that he was in a state of intense excitement. It was evident that he required my help. Instantly I prepared to give it. Slightly hastening my steps and firmly grasping my truncheon, I went to meet the boy.
It flashed across my mind that there was something infinitely touching in the trust reposed in me by this little child. And I reflected that he was one of the thousands of helpless trusting creatures that looked to us, the representatives of law and order, in every emergency.
In that moment I realized to the full the immense scope and importance of our great police force—the vast responsibilities that rest upon our shoulders. And in that moment I registered a solemn vow that, come what might, I would always do my duty; I would never fail my weaker fellow men in their hour of need, no matter how difficult or dangerous the task imposed upon me.
The boy was shouting something unintelligible in a childish treble. He was panting and out of breath when he reached me.
I addressed him kindly. I patted his head in a reassuring manner. I spoke in slow, measured, confidence-inspiring tones.
“WHAT is it, my little man? Don't be afraid to speak. I am here to help you.”
The boy peered searchingly into my face. All at once he smiled. Again I was touched by the confidence and trust I read upon that childish face.
Then, clearly and distinctly, he uttered his behest:
“Please, sir, have you got any cigaret-pictures?”
At this remote period I do not remember the precise nature of my reply. It may be that I spoke hastily. It may be that I made use of ill-considered words. The boy, I recollect, made faces at me as he retired. He retired, walking backward, and making remarks of no significance whatever.
I was thinking out suitable replies which would, I feel convinced, have silenced the boy effectually had he remained to hear them, when, all at once, I heard a cry—a cry inexpressibly horrible, a cry that sounded scarcely human, as of some lost soul in torment.
I listened with wildly beating heart. Once more that cry.
I hurried in the direction of the sound, my shaking fingers clutching my truncheon.
Shrieks and howls rent the air. I saw what had happened: My black cat was no longer sleeping peacefully upon its doorstep. It was engaged in a desperate encounter with a feline of the tortoise-shell variety.
As they fought, clawing and spitting venom at one another, the combatants made horrid noises, ear-splitting and blood-curdling.
I tried to drive them apart. I brandished my truncheon. I yelled at them.
The black cat took a flying leap on to the window-ledge and landed in the middle of the geraniums, hotly pursued by the the tortoise-shell. Between them, half the contents of the window-ledge were hurled into the street.
I stooped to pick up a geranium-pot. Closely following upon the crash of breaking pottery, new sounds struck upon my ear: The raising of a window-sash, a torrent of words, forceful, picturesque, but indicative of some annoyance. Then a torrent of another sort, as of a basin of dirty water emptied over my upturned face.
Filled with righteous anger, with eyes smarting with soapy water, yet still clasping the flower-pot, I knocked at the door of that house. As the representative of law and order I could not allow the incident to pass unchallenged.
I told myself that I would be firm yet not unduly severe with the perpetrator of the deed. In a few carefully selected phrases I would point out to him the danger and inconvenience caused by his impulsive action.
I heard heavy footsteps descending. Next moment a figure of a giant attired in a nightshirt loomed before me.
It was the most enormous man I have ever beheld. His light attire was well calculated to reveal his powerful frame and abnormally bulging muscles. The moon shed her rays upon his face and disclosed a countenance of a strangely forbidding nature.
He surveyed me with a hostile glare.
"Well, watcherwant?” he snarled in a fierce voice.
I realized that something had probably occurred to annoy this man. He seemed put out, not quite himself.
It would not be fair to harass him still further.
I felt sorry for the man. I determined to overlook his impulsive assault, which, after all, was probably intended for the cats. I would not even refer to the incident. I would show him that I bore him no ill-will. I would endeavor to reassure him, to put him at his ease. I therefore addressed him with nonchalance and detachment of manner.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” I said, “but I believe this is your property.” And I held out the flower-pot with a pleasant smile upon my face.
Next moment the giant had seized the flower-pot and hurled it back at me. It hit me right in the middle of my pleasant smile, rebounded thence, and fell in shattered fragments at my feet.
The giant made a movement toward me. Propelled by an irresistible force, I joined the geraniums upon the pavement. When I had gathered myself together, I noticed that the door of that house was closed. Its occupant had disappeared.
MY FIRST impulse was to call the fellow to account; to demand an explanation of his conduct; if necessary, to insist upon an apology.
Then I realized that there is a time for everything; and that this, most likely, was not the time.
I would let him sleep upon it. In the morning when we were both cooler—I would talk to him in the cool of the morning.
In the meantime those infernal cats—the cause of the whole trouble—I could hear them fight still, farther up the street—fighting like fiends.
Once more full of righteous indignation, I dashed up to the beasts. I drove them apart. I pursued them.
The black cat climbed up the lamp-post, whither the wounds I had sustained forbade me follow.
The tortoise-shell devil continued to elude me me on level ground. I chased it furiously with wild cries waving my truncheon. It darted up the street and leaped through an open window. There was a loud crash and the tinkle of broken glass.
A moment later a face appeared at the window—a female face, distorted with passion. It gave me one look then disappeared.
I stood hesitating how to act. Then the door of the house burst open. A female form flew down the steps and threw itself upon me. Instinct told me that this was the owner of the face.
When I was able to see clearly, I knew that I was right.
The female was large and powerful. I noticed that she addressed me as “Me lord!” But this, I subsequently concluded, was not intended as a mark of respect. From the way she spoke I realized that she, too, was annoyed. She referred to me impartially as “me lord” and “you brute.”
I gathered that it was her cat I had chased, her cat that had leaped in at the open window and smashed the glass case containing the Cupid that had once decorated the summit of her wedding-cake.
LOUDLY lamenting this tragedy, the erstwhile bride addressed herself to a growing crowd.
Not only had the glass case been smashed to smithereens, but Cupid himself had been chipped. He would never be the same again.
Cupid, it appeared, had been the apple of her eye for thirty years.
The crowd respected the sentiment. They respected it none the less because there was a certain poetic license about Cupid as an emblem of the matrimonial bliss of Mrs. Hobbs, in view of the present occupation of Mr. Hobbs. I was given to understand that Mr. Hobbs, having been duly charged with and found guilty of extreme physical violence resulting in grievous bodily injuries to the person of Mrs. Hobbs, was then serving a sentence of hard labor at Wormwood Scrubbs.
Mrs. Hobbs herself touched delicately upon this circumstance in the course of a brief résumé of her career with which most of her hearers appeared to be already familiar.
Her misfortune and unblemished character served to emphasize the reprehensible nature of my behavior: The chasing of the innocent cat of the blameless Mrs. Hobbs now stood revealed as an act of unparalleled brutality and callousness. The cat of one who had triumphantly supported herself and the partner of her joys and sorrows for thirty years by taking in mangling and occasionally doing for the ladies of the neighborhood to oblige, such an animal, Mrs. Hobbs pointed out, should have been sacred.
I bowed my head in shame.
Mrs. Hobbs said she would learn me to chase the poor dumb animal.
The crowd murmured approval.
Mrs. Hobbs remarked that some people were no better than Huns.
The crowd cried, “That's right!” and “Shame!”
Mrs. Hobbs said she hoped that some day some people would be trodden on as she had been trodden on.
The crowd hoped so too.
Mrs. Hobbs been to cry. She said this was the crowning sorrow of her life. Nothing would ever make up to her for the chipped Cupid, and the glass case alone had cost a small fortune.
The crowd advised her to have the lawrofim.
Mrs. Hobbs declared between her sobs that she would certainly would.
I pointed out to Mrs. Hobbs that I was willing to make good the loss as far as lay in my power.
Mrs. Hobbs instantly became hysterical and dropped Cupid on to the pavement. It broke into three pieces. Mrs. Hobbs gave a shriek and swooned into my arms.
She was a large woman, but my presence of mind did not desert me. I lowered her gently on to her doorstep and called for keys and burnt feathers.
Then it was that I received a remarkable illustration of the truth of the saying, “It's the poor that help the poor.”
The poor burned feathers under the nose of Mrs. Hobbs until she was quite black in the face. They put so many door-keys down her back that every inch of her must have been metal-plated.
For a long time Mrs. Hobbs refused to yield to treatment. The burnt feathers made her choke and cough, but she went on swooning, and her eyes remained tightly closed. All efforts to lift her were fruitless. Mrs. Hobbs continued to repose inertly upon her doorstep.
Then some one suggested blood-letting, and Mrs. Hobbs sat up. By the time I had pressed a five-pound note into her hand she had recovered completely.
Amid answers of approval she assured me that she bore me no malice and that, though the loss of the Cupid was, of course, irreparable, she felt sure that I had acted from the best of motives. When all the keys had, with some difficulty, been retrieved, Mrs. Hobbs bade us a comparatively cheerful “good night,” and the crowd retired. Blinds that had been hurriedly pull up were pulled down once more; windows that had been thrown open were closed. Front doors were slammed, bolts shot, keys turned in their locks. The black cat retreated to its doorstep. Quiet reigned once more in Paradise Row.
Then a new sound broke the silence of the night—the sound of lurching footsteps—of some belated reveler returning home. (I have read this somewhere in a book and it fits in beautifully.)
From the manner in which the belated reveler came zigzagging along toward me by the aid of lamp-posts, each of which in turn he seemed reluctant to abandon, it was evident that he was in a condition of abnormal alcoholic excitation, leading to slightly impaired muscular action of the extremities, accompanied by considerable obfuscation of the visual organs. In short, the man was blind drunk.
Deploring his condition, yet not without a certain sympathetic insight, I hurried to his assistance at the moment when, finally abandoning all extraneous support, he slid on to the pavement.
I RAISED him to a sitting position. I interrogated him in the authoritative yet not callous manner befitting to my uniform.
“Come, my man,” I said. “Pull yourself together, and tell me where you live.”
He muttered something I could not understand.
“Come, come,” I remarked more firmly. “I know exactly how you feel. No doubt a policy of masterly inactivity commends itself to your mind at the present moment, in preference to more active measures. But you must make an effort. Try and tell me where you live.”
He made the effort.
“Stwenty-stoo,” he murmured.
I looked anxiously at the numbers on the nearest houses. Luckily, twenty-two was not far away.
I hoisted him on to his feet. With some difficulty I supported his wayward steps in the direction of number twenty-two. I propped him up with his back against the door and knocked. Thrice I knocked before the expected footstep came.
At last the door was opened, a dim female shape appeared and silently pulled my reveler in.
I turned away. I congratulated myself upon the neat and useful piece of work I had accomplished. I was arrested by an exclamation indicative of disappointment. Next moment something came hurtling down the steps into the middle of the road. examined it; it was my friend.
I dragged him painfully back on to the pavement. I seated him with difficulty against a lamp-post. I overhauled him for broken bones.
His attire was disheveled and one eye was assuming rainbow hues. He blinked at me cheerfully with the other. fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a short clay pipe and spoke.
“GOT light—hic—mate? Matches blinkin' dif—hic—dif–hiccult to ob—hic—tain.”
I was surprised and a little annoyed.
“How's this, my man?” I inquired, as I helped him to light his pipe. “Why have you come out again? I thought I saw you home.”
“Show you did—hic,” he replied, with a happy smile; “but I—hic—remember now—I moved las' weekick.”
The reply I was about to frame remained unuttered. Somewhere a window opened.
I do not know for whom the missile—it felt like a flower-pot—was intended.
I do not know to whom the request to go and do 'is blinkin' love-makin' somewhere else was addressed. Before I had time to investigate the matter a door on the opposite side of the road was flung open and a youthful female form emerged and rushed upon me with wild cries.
“Constable! Constable! Father's murderin' mother!”
"What!”
“'E's bin sittin' on 'er stummick poundin' 'er 'ead, an' now 'e's runnin' round lookin' for the 'ammer to do 'er in!”
“A hammer! Good heavens!”
“Come along, quick, constable, for Gawd's sake!”
“I will whistle for assistance,” I said, pulling violently at my cord. Something had gone wrong. It had caught somewhere. I tugged and pulled. I was unable to get at my whistle.
“Wait one moment, my girl,” I murmured, fumbling feverishly.
“Wite one moment!” exclaimed the girl shrilly. “'Wite!' 'e says. It's all right! She's only bein' murdered! 'Wite while I finds me whistle!' You're a bloomin' 'ero, ain't yer?”
“I'm whistling for assistance, my girl,” I replied with dignity. “I am merely obeying the regulations. However, as the case is to urgent, I will come.”
As I followed her, I tried to straighten my disarranged attire.
“I wouldn't 'urry, if I was you!” screamed the girl. “I'd wite and mike myself look pretty!”
She led the way into a ground-floor room. There a terrible sight met my eyes.
A gentleman bearing a remarkable resemblance to Cruikshank's famous portrait of Bill Sykes was sitting upon the prostrate, and apparently lifeless, body of a female which he was belaboring with his fists.
Some instinct told me how to act. I realized in a flash that the only way to deal with this kind of situation is to remain calm and collected, to show no violence, to display no temper. In other words, to behave like a gentleman.
I therefore remained standing in the doorway, coughing gently once or twice to attract Bill Sykes's attention.
“DESIST, my man,” I remarked as soon as I had succeeded. “Desist, or I shall have to take your name and address.”
Bill Sykes surveyed me with great deliberation. Then he rose slowly and advanced toward me.
“You!” he said. “You—yer—yer! You—yer—yer——” Descriptive phraseology did not appear to be in his line. “I'll blinkin' well pitch yer out of the (ensanguined) winder into the (asterisked) street!” he remarked.
“I do not doubt your sincerity,” I replied, “but do let us talk this matter over calmly.”
The loose change in my pocket jingled musically.
A look of comprehension dawned upon the hoe of Mr. Sykes.
I drew out a treasury note.
“Far be it from me,” I said, absently folding and refolding the note. “far be it from me to grudge any man a little harmless pleasure. I realize that from my very earliest days, as far back as, if not further than the neolithic period, it has been man's privilege to indulge in the innocent pastime of wife-beating. There is, I however, a growing tendency on the part of our modern law-makers, rightly or wrongly, to discourage this form of exercise. I am but a humble instrument of the law. While sympathizing with the manly instinct which is prompting you administer what I have no doubt is well-merited castigation, it is my official duly to persuade you to desist.”
So saying, I handed him the treasury note for one pound.
“You seem to be talkin' a lot o' rot,” said Mr. Sykes, “but—this is good enough for me.”
“Orficer,” came a faint voice from the floor. “Orfioer!”
The lady had recovered consciousness. She was sitting up, her gaze slightly impaired by the treatment she had received, fastened upon Mr. Sykes's hand.
Mr. Sykes pocketed the note a little hurriedly.
“'Ullo Sybil!” he remarked. “I see you've woke up!"
“Yes, I've woke up,” replied Sybil.“I've woke up, and I'm goin' ter show yer! Orficer, I give that man in charge!”
I gazed at her in consternation.
“Do your duty, orficer,” she said, staggering to her feet. “Tike than man into custerdy. Can't you see 'e's bin bashin' me about somethink crool?”
“But he is your husband,” I reminded her.
“Yis, an' I gives 'im in charge, see?”
“Sybil, my girl, don't you be a crimson fool,” said her husband. Then his face changed and he burst into laughing.
I turned to Sybil. She was far from laughing. She was rocking herself to and fro as though in pain, clutching her head. Her nose and one side of her face were terribly swollen. One eye was completely closed, while tears were streaming out of the other. There was a bruise upon her neck the size of Bill Sykes's fist.
“Do your duty, constable,” she groaned.
I looked irresolutely at her lord.
He grinned.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Come and arrest me.”
There was something in Mr. Sykes's tone and manner I did not like.
“Look here,” I began, and hesitated.
“Constable, do your duty!” cried Mr. Sykes ironically.
I took a step toward him.
“That's right,” he said encouragingly. “Come on! Lay 'ands on me, constable, and yer mother won't know yer when I've done with yer!”
I turned to Sybil.
“You are driving this man to desperation,” I said.
“Looks like it, don't it?” she retorted carelessly.
“THINK!” I pleaded. “Think before you do anything you may regret. Remember, he is your husband. Remember, before you send him to prison, he is the man you have vowed to love, honor and obey. The man you have taken for better and for worse.”
“A damn sight more worse than better,” replied Sybil.
“At any rate, he is your husband,” I said. “Won't you—can't I persuade you to—forgive him?”
With these words I drew out my note-case. I pushed a note into her hand.
“Come,” I murmured, “be generous, forgive.”
She folded the note with care, stooped and thrust it into her stocking.
“Safest place when 'e's about,” she remarked, nodding toward her husband in an explanatory way. There was not the slightest trace of ill-feeling in her voice. Then, deceived by this sign of magnanimity, I made a slight mistake.
“NOW,” I said, smiling kindly at Sybil, “shake hands with him.”
“What for?” demanded Sybil.
“To show you're friends.”
“We ain't,” said Sybil. “We're married.”
“To show there's no ill-feeling, then.”
“There is.” It was Mr. Sykes who spoke this time. “I'm sick of the sight of 'er.”
“To look at 'im gives me a pain,” said Sybil.
“Oh, it does, does it?” cried Mr. Sykes in an awful voice. “All right, then.” He advanced threateningly toward his spouse. “For two pins, I'll slosh yer——”
“No, no!” I cried, hastily drawing out another couple of notes. “Here, we won't say any more about it.”
“I dunno so much about that,” said Mr. Sykes slowly, as he pocketed his note. “I've 'arf a mind to——”
“No, you aren't,” Sybil interrupted, stooping once more toward her stocking. “Don't you know a real gentleman when you see one?”
She raised her voice and shouted shrilly:
“Gwendoline! You in bed?”
“No, ma, I ain't!”
The girlish form of Gwendoline appeared in the doorway.
“Light the gentleman to the door, Gwendoline.”
“Yes, ma.”
The obedient Gwendoline, candle in hand, escorted me to the gate.
I bade her “good night.” Gwendoline remained standing with her back to the closed gate, apparently intent on further conversation.
“You 'adn't ought to 'ave let father git orf,” she remark.
“My good girl,” I said, “you don't know anything about it.”
There was that in Gwendoline's manner that irritated me faintly.
“Don't I? I do, though,” she retorted. “I was in the passage all the time. I saw.”
“Well, then, you saw how everything has been amicably settled.”
“Yes, I saw you settlin',” she replied. “You settled father and mother, but you ain't settled me. It was me what fetched you.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon,” I said. “An oversight on my part. Allow me …”
Left to myself, I reflected that, after all, it was five pounds well spent.
I had saved the authorities unnecessary trouble. Violence, perhaps bloodshed, had been avoided. A gentle answer had indeed turned away wrath.
“Whatever anybody says,” I mused happily, “conciliatory methods invariably pay.”
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when an ominous familiar sound broke upon the stillness of the night.
NEXT moment there came a deafening crash, succeeded by a blow that seemed to split my ear-drum, and I knew nothing more.
When I recovered consciousness the “All Clear” signal was being sounded.
No one was seriously injured by the bomb that had fallen in Paradise Row. I had been merely stunned by the concussion.
As I was being assisted down the street, a little dazed and shaken, a childish face swam into my line of vision. I recognized it: it belong to the collector of cigaret-pictures. I discovered that he was being led along the street by an authoritative female who firmly clutched a small reluctant hand.
“Oh, muvver, look!” cried the collector of cigaret-pictures, and he pointed his disengaged arm at me. “Our copper's bin blown up!”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1954, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 69 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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