The Saint vs Scotland Yard (The Holy Terror)

Since the galumptious, gory days

Immortalised in Shakespeare's plays.

For him, no Transatlantic flights,

Ford motor-cars, electric lights,

Or radios at less than cost

Could compensate for what he lost

By chancing to coagulate

About five hundred years too late.

Born in the only days for him

He would have swung a sword with vim,

Grown ginger whiskers on his face,

And mastered, with a knobbly mace,

Men who wore hauberks on their chests

Instead of little woolen vests,

And drank strong wine among his peers

Instead of pale synthetic beers.

At this point, the trend of his inspiration led the Saint on a brief excursion to the barrel in one corner of the room. He replenished his tankard, drank deeply, and continued:

Had he not reason to be glum When born in nineteen umpty-um?

And there, for the moment, he stuck; and he was cogitating the possible developments of the next stanza when he was interrupted by the zing! of the front door bell.

As he stepped out into the hall, he glanced up through the fanlight above the door at the mirror that was cunningly fixed to the underneath of the hanging lantern outside. He recog­nised the caller at once, and opened the door without hesita­tion.

'Come in, Harry,' invited the Saint cordially, and led the way back to the sitting-room. 'I was busy with a work of art that is going to make Milton look like a distant relative of the gargle, but I can spare you a few minutes.'

Long Harry glanced at the sheet half-covered with the Saint's neat handwriting.

'Poetry, Mr. Templar? We used to learn poetry at school,' he said reminiscently.

Simon looked at him thoughtfully for two or three seconds, and then he beamed.

'Harry, you hit the nail on the head. For that suggestion, I pray that your shadow may always be jointed at the elbows. Excuse me one moment.'

He plumped himself back in his chair and wrote at speed. Then he cleared his throat, and read aloud:

'Eton and Oxford failed to floor

The spirit of the warrior;

Though ragged and bullied, teased and hissed,

Charles stayed a Medievalist;

And even when his worldly Pa

(Regarding him with nausea)

Condemned him to the dismal cares

Of sordid trade in stocks and shares,

Charles, in top-hat and Jaeger drawers,

Clung like a limpet to his Cause,

Believing, in a kind of trance,

That one day he would have his Chance.'

He laid the sheet down reverently.