Lost trumpet

iz6
THE LOST TRUMPET
His young haggard face jerked from me to Pelagueya.
“Solomon ? That one of his tarts you have with
you ?”
My nerves were not at their best after the mixed
experiences of the day. ... Pelagueya gasped. I
knelt down beside him. He had hit the ground like
a pole-axed heifer. There came the sound of running
feet. I looked up at the English Military Policeman,
burly, be-belted, a prideful hand upon his revolver.
“ ’Ere, wot’s all this about ?” he inquired, without
politeness.
The triumvir sat erect, slowly. I stood up.
Pelagueya, with something like a giggle, lighted a
cigarette. The boy in the gutter sought to rise,
failed, grasped at the policeman’s leg, and slowly
levered himself upright.
“Damn good hit. Knew it was going to happen.
Happen,” he added vaguely, and then caught my
look. His glazed young eyes brightened. “I’d like
to jam you up against a wall and eviscerate you—
just to see what you’re made of. . . . And what
the devil is this ?”
He had turned his astounded attention upon the
policeman. The latter coloured richly.
“Never you mind ’oo I am. I’m the military
policeman in charge ’ere, that’s ’oo I am.”
“Good God, thus spake Zarathustra. Take it
away. Cremate it—else it’ll smell.” He put his hands
to his eyes, forgetting all of us. “Oh, God, my head,
my head !”
The policeman grinned. But to me it was obvious