in place on the frame to their right where the order of the acts was charted. Nobody appeared to have a programme, so the information was valuable only to the chairman. ‘If that last act ’orrified the ladies a little too much, I’ve got some news to set your minds at rest, girls. We ’ave with us tonight two outstandin’ guardians of the peace. Yes, the boys in blue are with us tonight . . .’
‘Blimey, Sarge. We’ve been spotted.’
‘Steady, Constable.’
‘. . . Those two favourite myrmidons of the Law, P.C.s Salt and Battree!’
The act-drop had been lowered during the announcement, and now two performers dressed as uniformed police officers marched in step to the centre of the stage, the second ludicrously close behind the first. Predictably, there was a collision when they stopped in mid-stage, emphasised with cymbals.
‘Lord save us!’ said Cribb. ‘Not one of these lunatic displays!’
‘Watch yerselves!’ shouted one of the performers. ‘I’m watching you!’
‘Guying the Force is just about the favourite occupation of your fair-minded British general public,’ grumbled Cribb. ‘There ain’t been a pantomime since Grimaldi without a flatfooted constable blundering about with a string of sausages. And there’s more bluebottles on the music halls than there is in the Metropolitan: Vance, Stead, Arthur Lloyd, Edward Marshall—even Gilbert and Sullivan are up to it now. Blasted scandal, it is. Home Secretary wants to look into it, in my opinon.’
‘I’m the man wot takes to pris’n
He who steals wot isn’t his’n
X yer know is my Division
Number ninety-two,’ sang P.C. Salt.
Both artistes now produced authentic police-rattles, which they sprang, to the delight of the audience.
‘We could take ’em in for having police property, Sarge,’ suggested Thackeray.
‘It ain’t the night for it,’ growled Cribb, hunched over the box-front, with his hands over his face, watching the performance between his fingers.
Another song got under way:
‘They gave us an ’elmet and a greatcoat
And armlets to wear upon our sleeve
An ’andsome tunic too
In regulation blue
But now we’ve rattled our rattles we want to leave—
All together now—But now we’ve rattled our rattles we want to leave.’
‘Damned disgrace!’ said Cribb.
‘Watch yerselves!’ shouted P.C. Battree, ‘I’m watching you!’
‘These buffoons earn more for five minutes of this rubbish than you and I would get for a week’s beat-bashing,’ continued the sergeant. ‘And here we are protecting ’em. If this pair suffer an attack, you and I are taking the long way down to the stage, Thackeray.’
Whistles from the audience greeted a pretty young woman who had joined the officers on the stage. Her dress had a certain theatricality about it, but it was her mode of walking—characterised by a singular mobility in the region of the hips—that left no-one in any doubt as to the class of person she represented. After several exaggerated backward glances, P.C.s Salt and Battree began their final chorus:
‘Poor old feet
Out on the beat
Pursuin’ the enforcement of the Law.
But you gets a saucy wink
And the offer of a drink
And that prevents yer feet from gettin’ sore—
Once more now—And that prevents yer feet from gettin’ sore!’
Then, with arch nods and pointing, to leave the audience in no doubt of their intention, they trotted off in pursuit of their assistant, shortly afterwards returning with her to take their bow.
‘At least we didn’t have to go to their aid,’ said Thackeray, conscious of the fury in Cribb’s silence.
‘If I ever meet ’em in the course of duty, they’ll need aid all right.’
The curtain descended and the limelight returned to the chairman’s table. ‘And now, my friends, after that rare entertainment, not being a temperance-observer, I shall enjoy a tipple of fizz generously subscribed by the table on my right. The show proceeds with a redoubtable
‘Blimey, Sarge. We’ve been spotted.’
‘Steady, Constable.’
‘. . . Those two favourite myrmidons of the Law, P.C.s Salt and Battree!’
The act-drop had been lowered during the announcement, and now two performers dressed as uniformed police officers marched in step to the centre of the stage, the second ludicrously close behind the first. Predictably, there was a collision when they stopped in mid-stage, emphasised with cymbals.
‘Lord save us!’ said Cribb. ‘Not one of these lunatic displays!’
‘Watch yerselves!’ shouted one of the performers. ‘I’m watching you!’
‘Guying the Force is just about the favourite occupation of your fair-minded British general public,’ grumbled Cribb. ‘There ain’t been a pantomime since Grimaldi without a flatfooted constable blundering about with a string of sausages. And there’s more bluebottles on the music halls than there is in the Metropolitan: Vance, Stead, Arthur Lloyd, Edward Marshall—even Gilbert and Sullivan are up to it now. Blasted scandal, it is. Home Secretary wants to look into it, in my opinon.’
‘I’m the man wot takes to pris’n
He who steals wot isn’t his’n
X yer know is my Division
Number ninety-two,’ sang P.C. Salt.
Both artistes now produced authentic police-rattles, which they sprang, to the delight of the audience.
‘We could take ’em in for having police property, Sarge,’ suggested Thackeray.
‘It ain’t the night for it,’ growled Cribb, hunched over the box-front, with his hands over his face, watching the performance between his fingers.
Another song got under way:
‘They gave us an ’elmet and a greatcoat
And armlets to wear upon our sleeve
An ’andsome tunic too
In regulation blue
But now we’ve rattled our rattles we want to leave—
All together now—But now we’ve rattled our rattles we want to leave.’
‘Damned disgrace!’ said Cribb.
‘Watch yerselves!’ shouted P.C. Battree, ‘I’m watching you!’
‘These buffoons earn more for five minutes of this rubbish than you and I would get for a week’s beat-bashing,’ continued the sergeant. ‘And here we are protecting ’em. If this pair suffer an attack, you and I are taking the long way down to the stage, Thackeray.’
Whistles from the audience greeted a pretty young woman who had joined the officers on the stage. Her dress had a certain theatricality about it, but it was her mode of walking—characterised by a singular mobility in the region of the hips—that left no-one in any doubt as to the class of person she represented. After several exaggerated backward glances, P.C.s Salt and Battree began their final chorus:
‘Poor old feet
Out on the beat
Pursuin’ the enforcement of the Law.
But you gets a saucy wink
And the offer of a drink
And that prevents yer feet from gettin’ sore—
Once more now—And that prevents yer feet from gettin’ sore!’
Then, with arch nods and pointing, to leave the audience in no doubt of their intention, they trotted off in pursuit of their assistant, shortly afterwards returning with her to take their bow.
‘At least we didn’t have to go to their aid,’ said Thackeray, conscious of the fury in Cribb’s silence.
‘If I ever meet ’em in the course of duty, they’ll need aid all right.’
The curtain descended and the limelight returned to the chairman’s table. ‘And now, my friends, after that rare entertainment, not being a temperance-observer, I shall enjoy a tipple of fizz generously subscribed by the table on my right. The show proceeds with a redoubtable