A FRIEND tells me that, dropping into a West End
public house for a sandwich the other evening, he got more than bread and cheese for his money. He found the pub full of large men jingling coppers in their hands and talking animatedly. Their identity was soon established; they were the crime reporters of the national newspapers, exchanging comments on the day's big event, waiting their turn to use the only telephone (nobody wished to leave the pub, for fear the story would erupt again, leaving him behind). One of them had what seemed to be an excellent piece, which. he related with gusto and without notes. In a wealth of circumstantial detail he described how a suspect had been trapped in a house by two detectives; how he had floored both of them and run for the stairs, only to trip at the top and make the entire descent in one ungraceful movement. The detectives followed (`six steps at a time') and pinioned him. Once again he broke loose, and fled into the street. By this time, however, his trousers had been so ripped that, descending, they incommoded him in his flight, and he was finally caught and overpowered. My friend looked throvgh all the papers the following morning, hoping to discover who em- ployed this amiable raconteur. But he looked in vain. PHAROS
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