BADGERS LITTLE SMUDGE

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 212, 26 November 1927, Page 12

BADGERS LITTLE SMUDGE

Complete Short Story

By

JOSEPH MILLER

Julian Fortescue Badger. whu, I regret to state, calls himself my dearest friend, appears to have solved the problem of how to live without money and without working. If you were to ask him what he does for a living—and even if you did not—he would probably tell you that he is an agent, or an entrepreneur (whatever that may mean), or just a plain business man; anyhow, it would be something nebulous and indefinite. In reality, he does nothing. Like the lilies of the field, he toils not. niether does he spin. But he is always going to start something soon. Oh, yes! Providing ourselves with decent clothes is a matter that taxes tlio brains of ordinary mortals like you and me, but the soul of Badger soars above such mundane matters —he steals mine. The food question is easily solved, too, for he is never above dropping in and taking pot-luck, even when I am out. Of course, there must be something

distinctly likeable about him, or he would never get away with it. Under , the influence of his beaming smile I am like a hypnotised humming bird offering itself as a tasty tit-bit to a I hungry boa-constrictor. A raucous voice lyrically informing ! the neighbours that “Maxwelton braes are bonny” warned me, too late, that Badger was honouring me with a visit. ' I was not overjoyed. “Ladlet,” he stated when lie had appropriated my only armchair and all that remained of my whisky, “we are going to the pictures this afternoon.” “Who are going to the pictures?” I jasked. “You on the one part, and I on the other, conjointly form the duo to which 1 I referred,” he replied, employing that lofty diction to which my whisky ali ways causes him to aspire. “What pictures?” I asked, wondering | whether Badger had decided to become a patron of the fine arts, or if he 1 intended studying cinema acting with

a view to ousting Douglas Fairbanks from his lofty position. “We are going,” he stated, ‘to the local cinema theatre, named by an imaginative alliterative, but untruthful proprietor, Porson’s Popular Palace of Pure Pleasure." “Why?” I asked. "Because,” he replied, helping himself to a handful of my cigarettes, “I want you to see a film which deals with smuggling.” ‘‘You,” I liaphazarded, gazing at the much-depleted contents of my cigarette box; “you have already seen the film.” “I have,” l\e confessed, ‘‘and I want you to see it too.” Why?” “Wait and see.” he counselled, “until you have seen it. I shall not say another word.” And in' proof of this he never stopped talking until we entered the picturesque portals of Porson’s Popular Palace of . But, as Badger says, there are enough P’s in it to start a soup kitchen. A white-aproned sylph, with a hushed voice and an electric torch, ushered us to our seat§, Badger enjoying himself immensely by maltreating the intervening patrons’ corns. He attributed their discomfiture to the enormous size of their l'eet. and suggested to one irascible old gentleman that it would be cheaper to wear a pair of portmanteaus instead of always having his boots built to order. The darkness mercifully hid my blushes. After enduring a few thousand feet of American hero. with . corrugated hair and excellent gold fillings, who habitually did simple little stunts, such as making his pony jump about the height of St. Paul’s, I permitted

the sobbing moan of the cello to lull me to sleep. “Pyrenees! Pyrenees! ‘ Look, ladlet, look!” It was Badger’s honking imitation of a voice that was recalling me from dreamland. “Whoso knees?” I asked sleepily. “Pyrenees, ladlet! Lfc>ok at the dogs! Get the idea? Twig the notion? And you kindly shut your ugly face, sir!” But his last remark was addressed to the gentleman to whom he had previously offered advice concerning the choice of footwear. “You can hush yourself, sir; tush, too! You don’t want to hear these blessed films, do you?” “Be quiet, Badger, you idiot!” I groaned. “Don’t make a holy show of yourself.” The white-aproned sylph, attracted • by Badger’s stentorian voice, completed my discomfiture by limelighting my features with her electric torch. “You must keep quate,” she remonstrated in "refaned” tones. “Come out of this!” I growled, dodging the steady shaft of light, and grabbing Badger by the arm. Anticipating further pleasure at the foot-crushing game, he cheerfully obeyed; but as soon as he stood on his feet all his previous victims tucked theirs away. Back in my room, Badger finished what remained of my port, and proceeded to explain what we must do to make a fortune. "You saw the film, ladlet,” he commenced. (1 had not, but 1 did not bother to interrupt). “Well,” he continued, “those dogs that we saw climbing over the mountains belonged to smugglers, and the little tliingummies that they had strapped on their backs contained bottles of brandy and cigars and nuts, etc., and so forth.” “Not nuts, surely,” I murmured. | “No; figure of speech,” he hastened ! to admit. “What I mean is, all kinds j of smuggled stuff, light enough for a ! dog to carry. Of course the limbs of 1 the law are pretty nippy blighters, it’s ! true; but so is a dog. and wh.en our 1 intelligent canine friend hears the ! sleuths giving tongue in hot pursuit, ] so to speak, he legs it for home with- j out waiting to watch the foliage ! blooming by the wayside. Even if they do snaffle the dog they haven't got the owner, so there is no thumping big fine to pay.” “But what has all this got to do with me?” I asked. “Why, my bonny but brainless boy,” he exclaimed, “if this stunt can be worked in the Pyrenees, can’t it be worked here, almost at our own doorstep?” • (“Our” doorstep was rather good!) “Elucidate,” I commanded. “Are there any docks over there?” he asked, sweepingly indicating the Thames as far as the eye could reach. I nodded. “Do any ships come there from foreign ports?” Again I nodded. “Do they bring brandy and cigars and —er —not nuts—and, etc., and so forth ?” Once more I nodded. “Well, then, you chump,” he shouted, abandoning the Socratic method, “we can start smuggling ourselves. Pay no duty, sell the stuff below market prices, and pocket great wads of filthy lucre. Of course we'll use Rin-tin-can.” •“You will not!” 1 snapped; “and his name is not Rin-tin-can; it’s Wolf. My dog is not going to help you with your swindling, smuggling schemes, nor am I!” “Come, come, ladlet,” he crooned, “a little more flexibility of outlook, a little more broad-mindedness, a little less early Victorianism, a little ” - “There is absolutely nothing doing,” 1 told hinCxP'Tn the past, when your alleged money-making schemes have been more or less honest, I have backed them, but you’ll get sent to Dartmoor over this, and I’m hard up, and can lend you no money, so good afternoon!”

And that was absolutely that! After purloining the few waifs that remained in my cigarette-box, and prophesying that I should live to regret not having jumped at this heavensent chance of a fortune, Badger took his moody departure. Of course, I ought to have had more sense than to believe that so insignificant an item as my refusing to loan him my dog would circumvent the nefarious designs of a man like Badger; he stole the dog! Tie no doubt would use a kindlier word, such as “borrowed”; but luring away Wolf, alias Rin-tin-can, my hitherto faithful blue Alsatian, with gifts of lump sugar (stolen from my table) and a false promise of cats to worry can only be described as stealing. My landlady broke the news to me after I had returned from an unsatisI factory interview with the welldressed brigand who calls himself my literary agent. There are more honest men making a living with three thimbles and a pea. With her usual genius fdr word-mangling she broke the news to me. “Oh, Mr. Hopscotch,” she stated (my name is Hitchcock), “Mr. Budget called smornin’, and he’s took Ring-tlng-a-ling with him fastened to a leech.” “No!” I gasped, Badger’s wild scheme of yesterday flashing through my mind. “Oh, but yes,” she replied, obviously enjoying the sensation her message had created. “And wot’s more, Ring-ting-a-ling is wearing one of them harness things like wot the dogs in them Eskimoke films wears.” Wild thoughts of sallying forth, armed with an Indian club, to extract summary vengeance from him, flashed through my mind. But that scheme had its drawbacks. If I went to the docks in search 3 of him I might be arrested as his accomplice. Expecting to be summoned, I sat down at my typewriter, and attempted to write a story about love or earthquakes or something, the resultant effort looking like a cross between a bill from a Chinese laundry and a treatise on howtyping should not be done. Rat-tat-tat! “That’s a policeman!” 1 surmised, hastening to the door. Although he was in mufti, one glance at his regulation feet proved that my guess was a good one. “Name of Hitchcock? ’ he asked, wetting a stump of pencil, and giving me a look that seemed to imply that anything I said might look well in the Sunday papers. “Yes,” I replied. “Have you a dog licence?’ ’ was his next question. Had I a dog licence? Of course I had. if that was all he wanted. I felt like falling on his neck and kissing him. My optimism was shortlived, however. “Have you a friend,” he asked, “called Trotsky Mussolini Lloyd George Haokenschmidt?” “Good heavens, no!” I replied. “Well,” said he, “this feller’s got your dog—at least, it’s got your name on its collar.” “Oh,” said 1, “and you’ve kindly come to tell me that this person has stolen my dog. Thank you very much, officer.” “Don’t bother to thank me,” he replied grimly. “You see, in a manner of speaking, your dog is under arrest, along with the prisoner Hackensclimidt.”

“Whatever for?” 1 gasped, knowing perfectly well what for. “Smuggling. Perhaps you’d better come along with me, sir.” “Perhaps I’d better,” f agreed, fearing that if I refused lie might produce a paii; of handcuffs and drag me along. Arrived at the station, 1 was given a seat immediately under an imposing array of handcuffs, leg-irons, and wicked-looking truncheons. It only needed a hangman’s rope to make a thoroughly cheering collection.

“1 am very doubtful whether Hackenschmidt is the prisoner’s correct name.” stated the inspector, a large, oblong man, with a head made of solid ivory.

I felt tempted to reply: ' Marvellous, Holmes:*’ but decided in time that I could not afford to make an enemy of ! him. ! “Bring in the prisoner Hacken- , schmidt,” ordered the inspector. I Badger entered, smiling and debonair, from his dungeon, or wherever they had kept him parked. He was followed by Wolf, alias Rin-tin-ean, who greeted me with what can only be described as a sheepishly joyful air. His ingratiating wriggles produced a slinking sound from the interior of a jacket arrangement which was strapped to his back. “Thank goodness you’ve come, ladlet!” shouted Badger, manipulating my arm like a pump handle. I knew I ; could rely upon your rallying to the i rescue.” j “I haven’t come to do any rescuing,” I replied. “I am here because this pic- | laced—er, that is to say, because this officer made me come.” “What! You pinched, too!” laughed Badger. “Well, well, this is funny—dashed funny.” “Certainly not,” said the woodenfaced inspector. "Mr. Hitchcock is not under arrest.” I realised that I had misjudged the man: he was not a bad sort after all. “Mr. Hitchcock has kindly consented to come here to assist the police in a little matter that must be done in the execution « f our duty.” “Don’t do it,.ladlet!” roared Badger. “Heed not his flattering tongue, my gay and guileless youth!” “What are you talking about?” ! asked. “Why, he wants you to unstrap this little gadget that is strapped on Kin-tin-can’s back. He . Imderously suggests that it contains bottles of spirituous liquor. By the way, what do you think of my home-made booze-carrier? Manufactured entirely out of my own { ingenuity and the old flea-bag that ; served me well on many a stricken i Flanders field in those bygone days, ! ladlet, when you and- I were wading | through mud and blood to keep in ! safety these poisonous specimens of i the genus homo who now hold me -n 1 durance vile!” Wolf woofted approvingly, and bared i his teeth at the inspector. ! “But look here,” said 1. "why don't I they unstrap the thing themselves?” I “Well—er,” commenced the inspector, “you see—er —that is to ay ” “Don’t stand there making V-shaped noises, you craven poltroon!” roared Badger. “Well do you know that this faithful creature would rend you limb from limb, and probably tear the seat of your pants, as well, were you to lay one marauding finger on his noble hide! ” “That’s all very well, Badger,” said 1, fondling Wolf’s ears to keep him quiet, “but you’ll have to unstrap the jacket, or they’ll keep you here until you do!” “No need to!” chortled the policeman, triumphantly holding aloft a bottle, which he Imd adroitly extracted while Wolf’s attention was engaged by me. “Cog-nac,” he read phonetically. “That’s French for ‘brandy’,” interpreted the inspector, reaching for a charge-sheet. “You were observed,” he stated, addressing Badger, “leaving the French barque Marie Therese with this and other bottles of spirituous liquor.” My late escort, —who, I afterwards learned, had arrested Badger—smirked importantly, and imperilled the safety of his waistcoat buttons with pride. He had swelled to an alarming extent when Wolf took a hand in the matter. Sensing that the bottle had been stolen from him, he uttered a rumbling growl, and sprang to effect its recovery. With a startled howl the policeman sidestepped. dropping the bottle, which shivered into a thousand fragments on the stone floor. That was what liberated Badger. The spilt liquid had no smell! A hasty examination proved that the remaining bottles contained nothing stronger than cbloured water. “Charge withdrawn!” snapped the inspector. “You may go!” Badger ought to have been intensely glad, but he wasn’t.

“The cursed French robbers!” he yelled. “The cursed French robbers!”