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Page 27
Said Redmond, "How about our respected sergeant? we seem to have
forgotten him."
"Slavin?" ejaculated the senior constable; and was silent awhile. There
was no levity in him now. Slowly he resumed, "I guess as much as it's
humanly possible for two men to know each other--down to the bedrock,
it's surely Burke Slavin and I. Should too, the years we've been
together. The good old beggar! . . . We slang each other, and all
that . . . but there's too much between us ever to resent anything for
long."
"I know," said Redmond simply, "he told me himself--last night."
"Eh?" queried Yorke sharply. "My God! . . . Tchkk!" he clucked, and
burying his hands in his face he gave vent to a fretful oath. "My God!"
he repeated miserably, "I'd forgotten--last night! . . . I sure must
have been 'lit' . . . to come that over old Burke. . . ."
"You sure were!" remarked Redmond brutally.
"Keats' 'St. Agnes' Eve'! . . . Oh, Lord!" . . . He drew in his breath
with a sibilant hiss, "There seems something--something devilish about--"
"I know! I know!" breathed Yorke tensely, "what . . . you mean." His
haggard eyes implored Redmond's. "No! no! never again . . . I swear
it. . . ."
There came a long, painful silence. "See here; look!" began Yorke
suddenly. He stopped and surveyed George, a trifle anxiously.
"Mind! . . . I'm not trying to justify myself but--get me right about
this now. Don't you ever start in making a mistake about Slavin--blarney
and all. No, Sir! I tell you when old Burke runs _am�k_ in those
tantrums he's a holy fright. He'd kill a man. Might as well run up
against a gorilla."
A vision of the huge, sinister, crouching figure seemed to rise up in
Redmond's mind--the great, clutching, _simian_ hands.
"In India," continued Yorke, "we'd say he'd got a touch of the 'Dulalli
Tap.' The man doesn't know his own strength. I was taking an awful
chance--getting his goat like that last night. It's a wonder he didn't
kill me. He's man-handled me pretty badly at times. Oh, well! I guess
it's been coming to me all right. Neither of us has ever dreamt of going
squalling to the Orderly-room over our . . . differences. I don't think
Burke's ever taken the trouble to 'peg' a man in his life. Not his way.
'I must take shteps!' says he, and 'I will take shteps!' and when he
starts in softly rubbing those awful great grub-hooks he calls
hands--together! . . . well! you want to look out."
Lighting a cigarette he resumed reminiscently: "They were a tough crowd
to handle up in the Yukon. The devil himself 'd have been scared to butt
in to that 'Soapy Smith' gang; but, by gum! they were afraid of Slavin.
He doesn't drink much now, but he did then--mighty few that didn't--up
there--and I tell you, even our own fellows got a bit leery of him when
he used to start in 'trailing his coat.' They were glad when he 'came
outside.' That's one of the reasons why he's shoved out on a prairie
detachment. He wouldn't do at all for the Post. He never reports in
there more than he has to--dead scared of the old man, who's about the
only soul he is afraid of on earth. The O.C.'s awful sarcastic with him
at times, and that gets Burke's goat properly. He sure does hate getting
a choke-off from the old man."
He grinned guiltily. "That's why he prefers to wash the family linen
strictly at home--what little there is. But, sarcasm and all, the O.C.
gives him credit for being onto his job--and it's coming to him, too.
He's quick acting and he's got the Criminal Code well-nigh by heart.
Regular blood-hound when he starts in working up a case."
He yawned, and rising stiffly to his feet stretched his cramped limbs.
"We-ll! Reddy, my giddy young hopeful!--Now we've fallen on each other's
ruddy necks and kissed and wept and had a heart-to-heart talk we'll--"
"Aw, quit making game, Yorkey! Is it a go? You know what I said?"
Strangely compelling, Yorke found that bruised, eager, wistful young
face, with its earnest, honest eyes. "All right!" he agreed, with
languid bonhomie. "You've certainly earned the office of Dictator, and,
as I remarked--we really have quite a lot in common. Mind, though, you
don't repent of your bargain. One thing!" the curved, defiant nostrils
dilated faintly, "Seems the world always has use for us runagates in one
capacity. It's just the likes of us that compose the rank and file of
most of the Empire's military police forces. Who makes the best M.P.
man, executing duty, say, in a critical life-and-death hazard? The
cautious, upright, model young man, with a tender regard for a whole skin
and a Glorious Future? Or the poor devil who's lost all, and doesn't
care a d----n? We tackle the world's dangerous, dirty criminal work
and--swank and all--Society don't want to forget it."
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