“Tum tumty tumty tumty tum, Tum tumty tumty tum, Tum tumty tumty tumty tum, Tum TUMTY tumty tum.” It was! It must be! I glowed all over with modest pride. “That’s mine,” I said, with attempted nonchalance. “Ur?” queried the constable, who had fallen into a reverie. “That thing they’re singing. Mine. My election song.” It seemed to me that the officer regarded me strangely. It may have been admiration, but it looked more like disappointment and disfavour. “You on this Lawlor’s side?” he demanded, heavily. “Yes. I wrote his election song. They’re singing it now.” “I’m opposed to ’im _in toto_ and root and branch,” said the constable, emphatically, “I don’t like ’is views—subversive, that’s what I call ’em. Subversive.” There seemed nothing to say to this. This divergence of opinion was unfortunate, but there it was. After all, there was no reason why political differences should have to interfere with what had all the appearance of being the dawning of a beautiful friendship. Pass over it lightly, that was the tactful course. I endeavoured to steer the conversation gently back to less debatable grounds. “This is my first visit to Redbridge,” I said, chattily. “Ur?” said the constable, but I could see that he was not interested. He finished his cigarette with three rapid puffs and stamped it out. And as he did so a strange, purposeful tenseness seemed to come over him. His boiled-fish eyes seemed to say that the time of dalliance was now ended and constabulary duty was to be done. “Is that the way to the platform, mister?” he asked, indicating my door with a jerk of the helmet. I cannot say why it was, but at this moment a sudden foreboding swept over me. “Why do you want to go on the platform?” I asked, apprehensively. There was no doubt about the disfavour with which he regarded me now. So frigid was his glance that I backed against the door in some alarm. “Never you mind,” he said, severely, “why I want to go on that platform. If you really want to know,” he continued, with that slight inconsistency which marks great minds, “I’m goin’ there to arrest a feller.” It was perhaps a little uncomplimentary to Ukridge that I should so instantly have leaped to the certainty that, if anybody on a platform on which he sat was in danger of arrest, he must be the man. There were at least twenty other earnest supporters of Boko grouped behind the chairman beyond that door, but it never even occurred to me as a possibility that it could be one of these on whom the hand of the law proposed to descend. And a moment later my instinct was proved to be unerring. The singing had ceased, and now a stentorian voice had begun to fill all space. It spoke, was interrupted by a roar of laughter, and began to speak again. “That’s ’im,” said the constable, briefly. “There must be some mistake,” I said. “That is my friend, Mr. Ukridge.”