When he had honoured the toast, I scooted back with the glass, leaving
him wiping the beads off his beard-bristles. He was in his philosophic
mood when I rejoined him at the corner.

"Wot am I?" he said, as we paced along. "A bloomin' cypher. Wot's
the sarjint? 'E's got the Inspector over 'im. Over above the
Inspector there's the Sooprintendent. Over above 'im's the old
red-tape-masticatin' Yard. Over above that there's the 'Ome Sec.
Wot's 'e? A cypher, like me. Why?" Judlip looked up at the stars.
"Over above 'im's We Dunno Wot. Somethin' wot issues its horders
an' regulations an' divisional injunctions, inscrootable like, but
p'remptory; an' we 'as ter see as 'ow they're carried out, not arskin'
no questions, but each man goin' about 'is dooty.'

"''Is dooty,'" said I, looking up from my note-book. "Yes, I've got
that."

"Life ain't a bean-feast. It's a 'arsh reality. An' them as makes it a
bean-feast 'as got to be 'arshly dealt with accordin'. That's wot the
Force is put 'ere for from Above. Not as 'ow we ain't fallible. We
makes our mistakes. An' when we makes 'em we sticks to 'em. For the
honour o' the Force. Which same is the jool Britannia wears on 'er
bosom as a charm against hanarchy. That's wot the brarsted old Beaks
don't understand. Yer remember Smithers of our Div?"

I remembered Smithers--well. As fine, upstanding, square-toed,
bullet-headed, clean-living a son of a gun as ever perjured himself in
the box. There was nothing of the softy about Smithers. I took off my
billicock to Smithers' memory.