THE SEAMY SIDE.

Waikato Times, Volume 102, Issue 17277, 13 December 1927, Page 10

THE SEAMY SIDE.

TALES TO MAGISTRATE.

MAN WHO TIPPED WINNERS. (By R. E- Corder, in London Daily Mail.) Unless a prisoner is proved to be an idle and disorderly person, he cannot, under a new law, be convicted of begging, and the plain-clothes policemen on duty in the 'West End have to be very careful before they make an arrest. . * James Hunter, a massive man, wearing steel-rimmed spectacles, beard and moustache, and an air of injured innocence, used to be a sporting tipster, the sort of man who generously and cheerfully advises other people how to make fortunes.

Two plain-clothes policemen, after hearing James make eloquent appeals in Regent Street, W., for copper to assist an old sportsman, followed him into a public house and conscientiously watched him drink a glass of beer. Then they took him to Vine Street Police Station.

“I am well known in the West End,” said James, the ex-tipster, to Mr Mead, the magistrate at Marlborough Street Police Court. ‘‘l used to tip winners, but I have now reformed. Despite my previous convictions, I have never begged.” “Wliat convictions?” asked the magistrate, and the gaoler told him: “He was sentenced to three months at Bow Street as a rogue and vagabond, and there are eight other convictions, mostly for begging.” “All false evidence,” declared James, who will leave prison in time to tip the loser of the Manchester November Handicap. } * * * ~ *

Nobody could be really angry with Miohael Collins, a cripple on crutehes, who looks like an enlarged edition of Captain Kettle. He is not a hypocrite, and, if he errs at all, it is on the side of candour. The last time I saw him in the dock he was charged with begging, and he demanded: “Why shouldn t I beg? Begging isn’t a orime; it is a profession.” Anyhow, he went to the workhouse, and he did not like it. “You were found drynk last night, ’ said the magistrate severely. “I was, indeed,” agreed Michael Collins, with a chuckle. “I was so glad to get out of the workhouse and regain my liberty that I went on the spree, and (proudly) I have 3s 6d left.” „ . , “Pay half a crown,” ordered Mr Mead. “With pleasure,” said Michael Collins, gleefully banging his crutch on the floor of the dock. “I am very grateful to you, your worship.” Mr Mead tried to frown, but, catching the eye of Sir Archibald Bodkin, the Public Prosecutor, who was on the barristers’ bench and shaking with laughter, the magistrate relaxed and shared the joke.

Divisional detectives are so good that when, through excess of zeal, one of them makes a mistake, the fact is worth recording, not as a criticism but as an exception. John, a youth, who, apart from i wearing a pull-over that clid not agree

with his complexion, seemed guiltless of crime, was standing near tbe Marble Arch., W., admiring a pocket comb worth about sixpence when the detective, attracted by tbe unusual design of the comb, asked; “Where did you get it?” “I gave two pints of beer for It,** said John. ‘■‘What do you think of It?*' “Your answer does not satisfy me.” said the detective, “and you must come to Vine Street.

“What, for this ! 14 exclaimed John, holding up the comb.. “I was just wondering if it Iwas worth more than a pint.” 1

•But John was arrested and brought before Mr Mead, who, after examining the comb, remarked that the value was too trivial to justify a charge of unlawful possession, and discharged John and his sixpenny comb. But he ought to have been fined for that pull-over.