Small Fry

Being one of the smallest guys on the job I was like a magnet for every

thug that wanted to have a go at assaulting a policeman. In the past I had

always adhered to the policy that “It’s a poor set of feet the lets your nose

get in trouble” but I couldn’t run away anymore. I relied heavily on my gift

of the gab but when that failed I would have to mix it up as best I could.

These encounters left me stiff and bruised and cost the city a lot of money

replacing torn uniforms. Whenever Maloney arrived to find me struggling

away with some big guy he would give me a wink and then fire my assailant

into the back of the wagon saying “Why don’t you pick on somebody your

own size?’

I was alone late one night, walking the beat on King St. in the heart of

the city. It was a drizzly fall night and I had stopped in the shelter of a

doorway to update my memo book.

It was well past bar closing time and the city was shutting down. An

empty streetcar pulled up and opened its doors at a stop directly in front of

me. I stepped forward and exchanged a few words with a tired looking

conductor who was heading to the barn at the end of his shift, then backed

into the doorway to finish my writing. I stayed put a while longer trying to

shake off the sleepiness that was taking hold of me. Then I decided to move

on. As I stepped out of the doorway and looked to my right I noticed a

strange form in the distance moving toward me. I moved back into the

doorway and removed my hat so I could peer around and get a better look.

At first he appeared to be a large man in the distance but when I looked

more again more closely I realized that he was a very small man. In fact he

was a dwarf and as I watched him tack his way up the sidewalk I realized

that he was also very drunk.

I reclaimed my spot in the shadowy doorway and waited for him to

pass but instead of moving on by, he stopped directly in front of me and

started digging in his pockets for streetcar tokens. He was very unsteady on

his feet and only managed to stay upright by wrapping his stubby arms

around a convenient lamppost.

I was just about to go and help him when another streetcar pulled up

and the doors whooshed open.

The little fellow left the security of his post, staggered to the trolley

and tried to climb aboard. The step up to the car was about waist high on

him and he made several abortive attempts to mount them, the last time

taking a run at them and landing on his back.

I rushed over to him, helped him into a sitting position and asked him

if he was hurt. He just giggled and mumbled something incomprehensible. It

was obvious that he was feeling no pain. When I asked the conductor if he

would help me get him aboard he made it perfectly clear to me that he was

not going to be responsible for looking after the little guy. I told him that if

he didn’t I would have to call for the wagon but he didn’t seem to care.

Actually I knew it might not be that serious because Maloney was driving

that night.

After picking him up and dusting him off, I carried the little guy into

my doorway and propped him against the wall and then walked the short

distance to the call box and requested some transportation.

I knew the wagon was close by so I went back and hustled my

prisoner over to the curb so that we would be easy to spot. That’s when

inspiration struck!

When Maloney arrived I was standing, all puffed up and proud with

my nightstick in one hand and the dwarf handcuffed to my opposite wrist.

He stuck his head out of the wagon window and said, “I tink ya better

tro dat won back!”