"If Lew gets away, somebody's hopes of promotion'll be gone for ever! Anything that's sent in to him is to be kept from him until after I've seen it to-morrow morning. He's not to have the privilege of ordering anything whatever from outside--you can tell him all his money's gone to pay his hospital bill. Nobody is to be allowed to enter the cell--don't even go in yourselves, unless he looks like dying. That's all. If the Triangle scores again, I should say the Chief Commissioner'll crucify every man in C Division with his own hands!" It was perhaps lucky for several people that Storm had exaggerated the brutality of Sir Brodie Smethurst. The circumstances, as far as one can collate the depositions of those concerned, were as follows: About nine p.m. that night Police Constable C811, who was standing at the corner of Marshall Street and Broad Street, was approached by a bulky ruffian whose dissonant caterwauling was clearly a public nuisance. On being requested to desist, the large one smote C811 with some strength and his boot, even upon the shins, and was promptly taken into custody. Leading his captive up Marshall Street, C811 met three other musicians who, linked arm in arm, were making the night air hideous with their attempts to harmonise _Rose in the Bud_ and _Annie Laurie_. C811 told them to shut up, whereupon the three ranged themselves in line before him, chorused a hearty _tu quoque_ plus a vulgar expletive, and switched over to a pathetic rendering, in comparative unison, of Tosti's _Good-bye_. They also were added to the bag, and the four were shot into the charge room of Marlborough Street Police Station, certified drunk and accused of being disorderly withal, and locked up to await judgment in the morning. They had scarcely been removed to the cells when Police Constable C796 arrived, having in tow two troubadours looking distinctly the worse for wear, whom he charged with conducting a free fight in Regent Street in the course of which they smashed a shop window. They also were placed in durance vile. Meantime, four husky specimens, who looked like farm hands in London for the day, had drawn up in line before the station entrance, teetering somewhat unstably on their heels, and had commenced to regale the man on duty at the door with _Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag_--a subtle jest which was not appreciated until later. After enduring their immelodious advice for some minutes, the doorkeeper descended the steps and invited the four bards to move on. The man who seemed to be the leader of the troupe failed to understand. "Move on?" he hiccuped, swaying slightly. "Norra bi'vit _hic!_ Thish--thish, of'cer--thish"---he tapped the Law solemnly on the thorax--"_hic!_ thish commun'ty singin'. Finesthingin--_hic!_--England. Go 'way. Don' spoil gai'ty vnations." He turned to his waiting choir. "Nowthnboys--sh-show thish of'cer wotchen _hic!_ do. Now. Al'gether."