n prompted me to turn round. Yes, there they
were, of course, a tall, thin youth winding away at a cine-camera like
an Italian at a barrel-organ, and beside him a heavy-weight Israelite,
dancing a war-dance, waving bunches of typescript and howling at me to
stand clear. I had very near ruined a further mile or two of film.

I sprang out of range, and then, wishing to atone for my previous
blunders and prove that I really had no malevolent intentions towards a
struggling industry, I went round and assisted the caracoling producer
in stemming the crowd. Among others I stemmed a pushful policeman. I
didn't notice he was a policeman until he was biting the dust, with my
stick between his legs. However an instantaneous application of palm-oil
made it all right between us, and he squatted half-stunned on the kerb,
nursing his brow with one hand, my five bob with the other and took no
further interest in the proceedings. And very interesting they were,
too.

Three masked men dashed out of the shop laden with booty and were
pursued by a fourth, whom they knocked on the head and left lying for
dead on the pavement. Most realistic. The crowd, led by me, cheered like
mad. Then the thieves jumped into a waiting car and were whirled away.
That done, the photographer and his step-dancing friend leapt into a
second car and were whirled away also. Once more we cheered. I made a
short speech to the effect that everything was all right with the
British Cinema business and, after leading a few more cheers for myself,
came home.

"Well," you say, "all very jolly and so on, but what about it?"

There's this about it, old companion, just this, that I am very probably
spending a meditative winter in gaol. The charge is that I did aid and
abet a peculiarly ingenious gang of desperadoes to blow a jeweller's
safe, knock the jeweller on the head and get safely away with the stuff.
I am even accused of obstructing the police. An inspector has been round
to see me this morning and he tells me there is practically no hope. He
advises me, as between friends, to make a clean breast of it, return the
boodle, betray my accomplices, plead mental deficiency and trust to the
clemency of the Court. It's pretty rough, after making all arrangements
for spending a cheerful Christmas in Algiers, to have it changed to cold
porridge in Parkhurst or Princetown. Of the two I hope it'll be
Parkhurst, for Princetown, so _habitues_ tell me, is no place for a
growi