“Absolutely. And this is my pal George Caffyn. Writes plays and whatnot, don’t you know.”
We all shook hands, and the policeman, having retrieved a piece of chewing-gum from the underside of a chair, where he had parked it against a rainy day, went off into a corner and began to contemplate the infinite.
“This is a rotten country,” said Cyril.
“Oh, I don’t know, you know, don’t you know!” I said.
“We do our best,” said George.
“Old George is an American,” I explained. “Writes plays, don’t you know, and whatnot.”
“Of course, I didn’t invent the country,” said George. “That was Columbus. But I shall be delighted to consider any improvements you may suggest and lay them before the proper authorities.”
“Well, why don’t the policemen in New York dress properly?”
George took a look at the chewing officer across the room.
“I don’t see anything missing,” he said.
“I mean to say, why don’t they wear helmets like they do in London? Why do they look like postmen? It isn’t fair on a fellow. Makes it dashed confusing. I was simply standing on the pavement, looking at things, when a fellow who looked like a postman prodded me in the ribs with a club. I didn’t see why I should have postmen prodding me. Why the dickens should a fellow come three thousand miles to be prodded by postmen?”
“The point is well taken,” said George. “What did you do?”