THE BLESSED LIMIT 1935

A SHORT STORY
By S. L. BIRCHBY (Vd)
P.c. Smythe (Uppingham and Balliol) was most annoyed He, the pride of the gongsters, couldn't test his speedometer even in the heart of the country without being interruptedl
Now one of those vulgar sports-cars was trying to overtake him. Well, even his pseudo-baker's van had motors that worked sometimes. He speeded up and soon had put two miles of quiet lane between himself and the sports-car. "Oh," he murmured as he entered a speed-limit area, "Bet that boundah behind won't slow down. Let me see .... mustn't let him suspect. If I turn into this side lane I can spring out on the cad when he comes by. Then I shall get the weekly prize for bagging most limit-breakers. Good, we'll see! "
P.c. Smythe turned off the main road rejoicing, for he and his rival, P.c. Wilberforce (pronounced Jones) were bath bidding for top place; both had so far got a bag, clutch, or covey of 257.375 offenders in one week. How top-hole he, P.c. Smythe, would feel, flaunting before his jealous colleagues the much coveted Prize Suspenders (all wool, British, and supplied in the Yard colours, Belisha orange and Brighton blue)!
Five minutes later a cloud of dust in his face announced the screaming passage of the sports-car. With a grunt and a vision of the Prize Suspenders he let in the clutch and went roaring in pursuit. Now he'd show that outsider Wilberforce (pronounced Jones)!
Smythe would have been very surprised had he known that his rival was at that moment careering along in his gongster car, the sports-car, after Smythe's van! After all, you couldn't expect Wilberforce (pronounced success, no, sorry, Jones) to recognise a colleague's car if it vanished in a dust cloud .... Five minutes hard, riding and P.c. Wilberforce pulled up and swore violently. "Yes, dash and blow!" he repeated,
"A crossroads! Now, which way? Hey, you, fellow over there! Which. road did the van take?"
A typical son of the soil slouched across the road, removed a wad of chewing-gum from his mouth, and then said in a slow, rustic dialect, " Zay, buddy, Oi guess it wur on the left. Oi! 'ere! It wur three hours back ......But he was talking to yet another dust cloud.
Mumblimg to himself, the son of the soil resumed his seat on a grassy bank and started to sing an old ballad. The birds of the air did not welcome this St. Francis; they all fled squawking. Even a mongrel which was passing set up a howl. Together the howling of the dog and the singing of the rustic created a beautiful pneumatic drill like harmony, which greeted P.c. Smythe and his van as they in their turn pulled up at the cross-roads. P.c. Smythe shut his eyes, opened them, and blinked. "Ai say, where's the fire," he asked. "Oh, it's you and the other hound. Have you seen a sports-cah, recentlah?" Son-of-the-soil gaped at this new arrival and remembered his mother's advice about strange men.
"Come, come, my good fellow!" P.c. Smythe exclaimed, "In a country of fifty millions surely even border-line cases can tell a sports-car when they see one?"
The dog slunk away howling at his words and even the border-line case found his tongue. "Dang me 'ide! What koinda racket 'ave Oi gotten inter," he said succintly.
"Well, come on, quick!" P.c. Smythe almost screamed. "If yer must know, 'e took the left fork," the rustic answered reluctantly. "Ah! Africa speaks!" sighed the P.c. in relief, swinging the van round. The rustic's rejoinder was lost in the roar of the baker's van, fast disappearing in the distance with a pair of suspenders metaphorically dangling before its driver's eyes.
Meanwhile P.c. Wilberforce was not enjoying himself. It was no fun to bounce along dusty little roads at speed on it beastly hot day in a wretched little sports-car that spurted vile petrol-fumes, all over the driver. Or was, it? P.c. Wilberforce, who had recently had his horoscope cast, remembered with a sinking feeling that the prophecy for that particular day was, "You will take a long journey." He reflected grimly that if he had to do much more wild swerving to avoid stray chickens, he would probably take an extremely long journey . . . . Where was that baker's van?
On and on he swept, mentally consigning bakers' vans, their drivers, stray chickens, and Hore-Belisha to a place hotter even than those country roads, if such a place were possible. Suddenly this delightful occupation was interrupted by the sight of a familiar figure standing at a distant cross-roads, a figure standing in a dramatic posture with right hand in coat lapel, left arm stiffly extended and pointing towards the left fork of the cross-roads, The figure was reciting something, and on a board was chalked: Second lap, 2 to 4 sports-car, 5 to 1 baker's-van. A small group of yokels laying bets surrounded the board. P.c. Wilberforce almost screamed: should he go on or stop this illegal betting? His hand was forced, though, for before he could apply the brakes, the cross-roads had vanished behind. As he continued in his Juggernaut career he could hear the rustic's voice, "banner with this strange device: Excelsior, Excelsior!" The P.c. let out a few more dashes and blows; he was now thoroughly roused.
Some miles ahead of the sports-car P.c. Smythe, having found that N., S., E., or W., you can be sure of Drat's High Test, was driving off from a wayside filling-station amid the raucous cheers of the mechanics, one of whom said it was Sir Malcolm Campbell, and another that it was J.H. Thomas absconding. They were still airing their views to nobody in particular when P.c. Wilberforce roared up, demanding petrol and information in one breath. Just about that time P.c. Smythe, with van, was being greeted at the cross-roads by the Human Signpost, an augmented gathering of punters, and the strains of Colonel Bogey rendered by the village Temperance Prize Band, which had hastily been summoned to welcome "these 'en, mad townies." Unfortunately, even if the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak, and to P.c. Smythe's delicate ears there seemed to be a strain of Blaze Away mingling with Colonel Bogey.
And so P.c. Smythe entered upon his second lap.
By the beginning of the sixth lap both vehicles were going at full speed. Both drivers had come to the conclusion that, whoever the other driver was, the mobile police would explore every avenue and leave no stone unturned to catch him. Great crowds were pouring in from the towns and villages nearby, and were lining every inch of the roadside. Every time P.c. Smythe or Wilberforce passed the cross-roads clanging his gong, the Little Bumbleton Close Harmony Club proceeded to render Kicking the Gong Around. Markers announced the time for each lap and peanut sellers were doing a roaring trade among the spectators. Portable radios and wheezy gramophones entertained the plebeian Wilberforce and shocked the aristocratic Smythe with variegated dance music, as they passed along in grim pursuit of each other. Every vantage point along their route was crowded with tic-tac men, supposed by the two gongsters to be hastily-summoned traffic policemen controlling the crowds.
In the middle of the afternoon, when they were completing the seventeenth lap before a crowd of nearly thirty thousand onlookers, and the B.B.C. was broadcasting a running commentary on their progress, the climax came. It was very lucky that it did, or they would have been circling the country lanes to this day. It all happened through the intervention of a herd of cows, which had parked themselves at the cross-roads and refused to move. The road was completely blocked, and when Smythe arrived he was forced to pull up and fume. But neither his fuming, the efforts of three brass bands to charm them away by playing The Entry of the Gladiators in three different keys, nor the hoarsely-rendered Tiger Rag, croaked by a frantic Close Harmony Club, elicited more than a rumbling "Moo" from the herd of cows. "Say! Be those caws talking to us?" demanded the indignant club leader as he and his followers gave up in disgust. But his question was never answered, for out of the distance came hurtling a begrimed sports-car. "Campbell's a-coming!" yelled an excited mechanic.
"Bai Jove'." exulted P.c. Smythe, "At last!" He ran up to the new arrival as the car stopped and its occupant clambered out. With news-cameras clicking and reporters crowding around, P.c. Wilberforce confronted P.c. Smythe. "You are under arrest," each began simultaneously, and then stopped as recognition dawned. "Wilberforce!" howled Smythe. "Smythe!" yelled Wilberforce, and then they both turned round as a dust-cart drew up beside them, clanging a gong. Out stepped a remarkably clean dustman, who said with an accent, "I've been watching you two gentlemen; you must come along with me for exceeding the speed limit. I heah…" But with a, single cry of "My suspenders!" P.c.'s Smythe and Wilberforce had fainted on top of the cows.