Policeman's Day - 1890

1890-08-02 Herald

"No. 63 Au the Foorce : One Day in the Life of a Hamilton Policeman”

       “Right About! Quick march!” was the ringing command uttered by Sergeant Prentice one morning lately at a few minutes to 7 o’clock, and out upon the beautiful morning strode three constables and the sergeant from the portals of No. 3 Police Station.

          Instantly, the eye of the passer-by lights upon Constable Bankit, No. 63. And no wonder; he is tall, erect, with almost an imperial gesture, deep black moustache, a pleasing countenance and a uniform neat and clean.

          He walks out on the street with head up and nostril sniffing the fresh, invigorating air, like a war horse eager for the fray. But the fray is not near, and No. 63 has to content himself with sauntering up and down the beat, looking in the store windows and at pretty girls, for, be it understood, Constable Blankit is yet a bachelor. Occasionally, he stops to flip off the sidewalk, a stray piece of banana skin which several pedestrians have expended sundry superfluous remarks.

          While in the middle of a day dream of the time when he becomes sergeant, he is awakened by a red-faced and excited man in shirt sleeves and wearing an apron, jumping up against him and saying: “For God’s sake, come to my place, there’s murder going on!”

          The constable recognizes the speaker as the landlord of Sheol’s Delight Hotel, and hastens after him to find a poor fellow standing in front of the place with blood running from a big gash in his head.

          By him is another man, who is too drunk to run away. In his hand is a broken tumbler. “Barroom scrap,” murmurs P. C. Blankit to himself, and in five minutes, the wounded man is on his way to the hospital and the assaulting party is in the cells.

          With nerves unruffled, No. 63 goes back to his beat and paces contently up and down. Ah! His eyes flash fire. He sees a cab and horses, but no cabbie. He keeps his eye on that combination. Ten minutes later, he sees Mr. Cabman come sneaking out of a hotel opposite. Down goes the occurrence into the P. C.’s little note book, and the next morning, the cabbie is before the judge for absenting himself from his horses and is fined $2.

          It is now about five minutes to lunch hour, and No. 63 hies to No. 3 Station where he fares sumptuous ham and bread and cold tea. Refreshed, he returns to his beat and casts his eagle eyes around to see if anything has been disturbed since he went to lunch. He is gratified to observe, in the words of the mariner, “All’s well.” But his temporary repose of mind is rudely broken. In front of him appears the form of a woman. She rings her hands and begs the constable to save her.

          “What is wrong?” asked No. 63.

          “Oh, sir, my husband has driven me out of the house, and now he’s hammering the children.”

          “Where do you live?”

          “Round the corner, sir,” and the woman dashes off, with the constable after her.

          No direction is needed to find the house. There were cries of terrified children and the bawling of a drunken brute that told it too well.

          Rushing into the place, No. 63 catches the ruffian by the back of the neck just as he is about to pound his youngest daughter and swings him into the corner. The sot turns around suddenly with the full intention of annihilating the man who strikes him, but as his eyes fall upon the blue cloth, the brass buttons, and the baton in the officer’s hand, he crouches back with an oath. The uproar has attracted another constable, and between them, they straighten out the rough places by removing the cause to the patrol wagon and to the cells.

          Half an hour later, it is 3 o’clock and No. 63 is relieved, and he hastens his home to appear in the Police Court in the morning against those he arrested.

          Such is the typical experience of one of Hamilton’s “finest” on the first eight hour’s stretch of the day. Other men have a more exciting time, and others again don’t have that amount of bustle in a week.

                             BY NIGHT

          It has now come to P. C. Blankit’s turn to do night duty, and, having laid aside his white helmet and put on his noble head that with the blue cloth covering, he goes to No. 3 Station about 6:45. At 6:55 he is paraded with the other officers, given his instructions by Sergeant Pinch and quick marched to his beat.

          For nearly two hours, No. 63 strolls contently up and down his beat from James to Mary – and has little to do but watch the people loitering along the sidewalks. The young fellow and his best girl are not unobserved by No. 63 and the numbers he sees rushing to the ice cream parlors represent to him a good many dollars. The smart young Aleck, who thinks it “just the thing, don’t ye know” to say something impertinent to a young girl who is passing, gets a few words of good counsel from P. C. Blankit and a flip on the ear to enforce the observations.

          Then rolls up the patrol wagon, and in jumps No. 63 to go, he knows not where. As the horses race along in the direction of Corktown, Driver Coulter tells him he’s after Mike Muldooney, who’s tearing the house down and generally “raising Cain.” In a few minutes, Coulter pulls up in front of an old frame cottage, which decidedly bears the marks of a recent fray. Half the windows are broken, the door is hanging on the hinge and portions of a chair lie strewn around, in company with some broken dishes.

          No sounds come from within, but as the officers jump down from the patrol wagon, a hundred voices tell them” “the old blackguard’s drunk inside. Yes, an’ he’s made his poor wife and children run for their very lives, he has.” P. C. Blankit goes into the house. His lantern is brought into requisition as there is no light burning.

          After a little searching, Mike Muldooney is discovered sleeping contently in a corner, with his head resting on a biscuit box, his feet in a bucket, and near his right hand is lying an empty whiskey bottle.

          “Now, Mike, wake up,” says No. 63, giving him a shake enough to loosen his teeth.

          “Eh!  What? Be quiet, Mary! it’s not six yet,” murmurs Mike.

“Come on, now,” responds Blankit, “this ain’t Mary, and you’ve got to go with me,” trying as he says so to hoist Mike on his feet. Coulter puts in an assistant boost, and they get Mike on his feet; but just as they are about to make him put his best foot forward first, Mike suddenly collapses and almost drags the two constables after him. Seeing it is useless to parley with Mike, they catch hold of him and carry him to the patrol.

At the station, P. C. Blankit gives the station duty man the charge against Mike, and after Mr. Muldooney has been examined and all the dynamite bombs and other dangerous articles are extracted from his pockets, he is escorted to his narrow home, and P. C. Blankit goes back to his beat and Driver Coulter to No. 4 Station.

A No. 63 reaches his beat, a stranger with a muffled voice and a beery breath accosts him: “Say, sergeant, where can I get a bed?”

P. C. Blankit’s eye roams up and down the man and his make up, and he wisely concludes that in his condition – with a valuable watch and chain, money and no sense – the stranger will be an easy prey for thieves and he considerately offers to escort the boozy stranger to a safe place. When Mr. Stranger discovers the hotel he has been brought to, he raises a fuss and wants to be out of it; but he cannot pass two or three brawny constables, and is finally landed on the bed in a narrow cell, where he sleeps contently until morning.

As a variation, P. C. Blankit walks along the blocks trying the doors. One of them – in the store of Meesrs. Muckletoon and Saltfish – he discovers open. This he promptly refers to the sergeant and Mr. Muckletoon or Mr. Saltfish is advised of the lapse of memory and he rushes downtown from the bosom of his family to lock the store door.

A turn at the James corner is now taken by No. 63, and he enjoys the satisfaction that comes from first standing on one leg and then on the other, interspersed with short chats with reporters and stray friends. It is now the hour that many journey homeward, and No. 63 has occasionally to steer a horse’s head aright, move on the young men who loiter at the corner, or gaze up at the City Hall clock and wish it were 3 o’clock in the morning.

Settling himself contently in his mind for an easy time for the rest of his turn, No. 63 strolls leisurely eastward, but just as he gets a block away, the fire alarm rings, out dash the chemical and hose wagons, and on they rush south of King street. In a few minutes, the patrol comes along behind the gently trotting horses – it must not make haste to fires – and P. C. Blankit had again to board it. At the scene of the alleged fire, they find a very large crowd and a very small blaze. The fire is contained in a small box, but the crowd would more than fill the police court.

Having pushed a few small boys and inoffensive fire gazers back on the toes of those in the rear, and having secured the best evidence that the conflagration is extinguished, P. C. Blankit mounts the patrol and is dropped off near the spot he left half an hour before. The rest of the night duty offers No. 63 no particular charm and he walks to and fro with no other object in view than to pass the time away. Of course, he keeps his eye on the look out for suspicious characters. A few men come past him at intervals, but they are either mechanics who have been working late or devotees of poker, whose light pockets do not make them light-hearted.

The hour of 2:55 arrives and No. 63 stands very quietly at the corner with his eyes turned to the street from which will emerge his relief.

He comes, and P. C. Blankit drops his official gait and puts on one something less formal as he scoots to his downy couch. At 9:30 the same morning, No. 63 is seen standing in the corner of the Police Court, as bright as a new quarter, waiting to give evidence against Mike Muldooney and the stranger who wanted a night’s lodging.

Such is a portion of a policeman’s life.