“What you want, old man,” I said, “is a policeman’s helmet.”
“Do I, Bertie?”
“If I were you, I’d just step straight across the street and get that one over there.”
“But there’s a policeman inside it. You can see him distinctly.”
“What does that matter?” I said. I simply couldn’t follow his reasoning.
Sippy stood for a moment in thought.
“I believe you’re absolutely right,” he said at last. “Funny I never thought of it before. You really recommend me to get that helmet?”
“I do indeed.”
“Then I will,” said Sippy, brightening up in the most remarkable manner.
So there you have the posish, and you can see why, as I left the dock, a free man, remorse gnawed at my vitals. In his twenty-fifth year, with life opening out before him and all that sort of thing, Oliver Randolph Sipperley had become a jailbird, and it was all my fault. It was I who had dragged that fine spirit down into the mire, so to speak, and the question now arose, What could I do to atone?
Obviously, the first move must be to get in touch with Sippy and see if he had any last messages, and whatnot. I pushed about a bit, making inquiries, and presently found myself in a little dark room with whitewashed walls and a wooden bench. Sippy was sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.
“How are you, old lad?” I asked in a hushed, bedside voice.
“I’m a ruined man,” said Sippy, looking like a poached egg.