urried away, as, he said, "the inspector" would be
along presently. Just why the inspector would regard "ile" in the open
air in view of the whole world less an evil than a tankard of mull and
bitter in a public house I cannot say. But it may be that as long as
one is in the open one can still keep one eye on one's duty.

I was hailed several days after this by my friend, who approached
rapidly. Well, I thought, he has been very useful to me, and three
ha'pennies are not much.

"I have something for you," said my friend, somewhat heated by his
haste.

"You have?" I said. "What is it?"

"It's a rose," replied my friend.

"A what?" I asked.

"A flower," said my friend, recognising that we did not speak exactly
the same language. "You know what that is?"

"Oh, yes. I know what a flower is," I said. "Where have you got it?"

"I have secreted it in the churchyard, sir," he replied. "I'll fetch
it directly?" he added, and was off.

When he returned through the gloaming he put the flower through my
buttonhole. "A lady dropped it out of her carriage," he said; "and I
thought of you when I picked it up." He stooped and smelled it.
"Hasn't it," he said, "a lovely scent?"

I had lived in New York a good while and I had somehow come to think of
policemen rather as men of action than as poets. But then in New York
we do not dwell in a flower garden; we are not filled with a love of
horses, dogs, and blossoms; and we do not all speak unconsciously a
literary language.

My friend was very eager that I should let him "hear from" me upon my
return to the States, and he particularly desired a postcard picturing
a skyscraper. So he gave me his address, which was:

"W. C. Buckington, P. C. B. Deyersan, Chelsea Police Station, King's
Road, Chelsea, S.W."

In acknowledgment of my postcard I received a letter, which I think
should not remain in the obscurity of my coat pocket. I wish to submit
it to public attention as a model of all that a letter from a good
friend should be, and so seldom is! There is an engaging modesty in so
large a man's referring to himself continually with a little letter
"i." My correspondent tells me of himself, he gives me intimate news
of the place of my recent sojourn, he touches with taste and feeling
upon the great subject of our time, he conveys to me patently sincere
sentiments of his good will, and he leaves me with much appreciation of
his excellent nature and honest heart. O