A small boy with a grimy face grinned ingratiatingly.
“Certainly not!” said Chief Inspector Japp. “And, look here, my lad—”
A short homily followed. The dismayed urchin beat a precipitate retreat, remarking briefly and succinctly to his youthful friends:
“Blimey, if it ain’t a cop all togged up!”
The band took to its heels, chanting the incantation:
The fifth of November
Gunpowder treason and plot.
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
The chief inspector’s companion, a small, elderly man with an egg-shaped head and large, military-looking moustaches, was smiling to himself.
“Très bien, Japp,” he observed. “You preach the sermon very well! I congratulate you!”
“Rank excuse for begging, that’s what Guy Fawkes’ Day is!” said Japp.
“An interesting survival,” mused Hercule Poirot. “The fireworks go up—crack—crack—long after the man they commemorate and his deed are forgotten.”
The Scotland Yard man agreed.
“Don’t suppose many of those kids really know who Guy Fawkes was.”
“And soon, doubtless, there will be confusion of thought. Is it in honour or in execration that on the fifth of November the feu d’artifice are sent up? To blow up an English Parliament, was it a sin or a noble deed?”
