A Damsel in Distress

It was George's practice, when he lunched alone, to relieve the

tedium of the meal with the assistance of reading matter in the

shape of one or more of the evening papers. Today, sitting down to

a solitary repast at the Piccadilly grill-room, he had brought with

him an early edition of the Evening News. And one of the first

items which met his eye was the following, embodied in a column

on one of the inner pages devoted to humorous comments in prose and

verse on the happenings of the day. This particular happening the

writer had apparently considered worthy of being dignified by

rhyme. It was headed: "THE PEER AND THE POLICEMAN."

"Outside the 'Carlton,' 'tis averred, these stirring

happenings occurred. The hour, 'tis said (and no one

doubts) was half-past two, or thereabouts. The day was

fair, the sky was blue, and everything was peaceful too,

when suddenly a well-dressed gent engaged in heated

argument and roundly to abuse began another well-dressed

gentleman. His suede-gloved fist he raised on high to dot

the other in the eye. Who knows what horrors might have

been, had there not come upon the scene old London city's

favourite son, Policeman C. 231. 'What means this conduct?

Prithee stop!' exclaimed that admirable slop. With which he

placed a warning hand upon the brawler's collarband. We

simply hate to tell the rest. No subject here for flippant

jest. The mere remembrance of the tale has made our ink

turn deadly pale. Let us be brief. Some demon sent stark

madness on the well-dressed gent. He gave the constable a

punch just where the latter kept his lunch. The constable

said 'Well! Well! Well!' and marched him to a dungeon cell.

At Vine Street Station out it came--Lord Belpher was the

culprit's name. But British Justice is severe alike on

pauper and on peer; with even hand she holds the scale; a

thumping fine, in lieu of gaol, induced Lord B. to feel

remorse and learn he mustn't punch the Force."

George's mutton chop congealed on the plate, untouched. The French

fried potatoes cooled off, unnoticed. This was no time for food.

Rightly indeed had he relied upon his luck. It had stood by him

nobly. With this clue, all was over except getting to the nearest

Free Library and consulting Burke's Peerage. He paid his bill and

left the restaurant.

Ten minutes later he was drinking in the pregnant information that

Belpher was the family name of the Earl of Marshmoreton, and that

the present earl had one son, Percy Wilbraham Marsh, educ. Eton and

Christ Church, Oxford, and what the book with its customary

curtness called "one d."--Patricia Maud. The family seat, said

Burke, was Belpher Castle, Belpher, Hants.