II + 

The policeman touched his cap. He was a long, stringy policeman, who flowed out of his uniform at odd spots, as if Nature, setting out to make a constable, had had a good deal of material left over which it had not liked to throw away but hardly seemed able to fit neatly into the general scheme. He had large, knobby wrists of a geranium hue and just that extra four or five inches of neck which disqualify a man for high honours in a beauty competition. His eyes were mild and blue, and from certain angles he seemed all Adam’s apple. + 

“I must apologise for being late, Mr. Beamish,” he said. “I was detained at the station-house.” He looked at Mullett uncertainly. “I think I have met this gentleman before?” + 

“No, you haven’t,” said Mullett quickly. + 

“Your face seems very familiar.” + 

“Never seen me in your life.” + 

“Come this way, Garroway,” said Hamilton Beamish, interrupting curtly. “We cannot waste time in idle chatter.” He led the officer to the edge of the roof and swept his hand round in a broad gesture. “Now, tell me. What do you see?” + 

The policeman’s eye sought the depths. + 

“That’s the Purple Chicken down there,” he said. “One of these days that joint will get pinched.” + 

“Garroway!” + 

“Sir?” + 

“For some little time I have been endeavouring to instruct you in the principles of pure English. My efforts seem to have been wasted.” + 

The policeman blushed. + 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Beamish. One keeps slipping into it. It’s the effect of mixing with the boys⁠—with my colleagues⁠—at the station-house. They are very lax in their speech. What I meant was that in the near future there was likely to be a raid conducted on the premises of the Purple Chicken, sir. It has been drawn to our attention that the Purple Chicken, defying the Eighteenth Amendment, still purveys alcoholic liquors.” + 

“Never mind the Purple Chicken. I brought you up here to see what you could do in the way of a word-picture of the view. The first thing a poet needs is to develop his powers of observation. How does it strike you?” + 

The policeman gazed mildly at the horizon. His eye flitted from the rooftops of the city, spreading away in the distance, to the waters of the Hudson, glittering in the sun. He shifted his Adam’s apple up and down two or three times, as one in deep thought. + 

“It looks very pretty, sir,” he said at length. + 

“Pretty?” Hamilton Beamish’s eyes flashed. You would never have thought, to look at him, that the J. in his name stood for James and that there had once been people who had called him Jimmy. “It isn’t pretty at all.” + 

“No, sir?” + 

“It’s stark.” + 

“Stark, sir?” + 

“Stark and grim. It makes your heart ache. You think of all the sorrow and sordid gloom which those roofs conceal, and your heart bleeds. I may as well tell you, here and now, that if you are going about the place thinking things pretty, you will never make a modern poet. Be poignant, man, be poignant!” + 

“Yes, sir. I will, indeed, sir.” + 

“Well, take your notebook and jot down a description of what you see. I must go down to my apartment and attend to one or two things. Look me up tomorrow.” + 

“Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir, but who is that gentleman over there, sweeping with the broom? His face seemed so very familiar.” + 

“His name is Mullett. He works for my friend, George Finch. But never mind about Mullett. Stick to your work. Concentrate! Concentrate!” + 

“Yes, sir. Most certainly, Mr. Beamish.” + 

He looked with doglike devotion at the thinker: then, licking the point of his pencil, bent himself to his task. + 

Hamilton Beamish turned on his No-Jar rubber heel and passed through the door to the stairs. + 