20 May 1937

CONSTABLE HAD THE LAST LAUGH

How A Sly-Grog Seller Was Outwitted

Ruses and the detection of sly grog selling seem to go hand in hand; and during the construction of the railway line from Adelaide to Melbourne 50 years ago, sly grog selling was rampant, with the result that members of the police force found all the excitement they wanted in trying to suppress such illegal traffic.

One story told by former Inspector C. LeLievre indicates that the police were often quite as astute as the sly grog seller. The usual method employed was for policemen from surrounding stations to raid the sly grog shops at any hour, day or night. Great hauls were often made, with the result that trollies were necessary to take the spoils to Mount Barker, where most of the cases were tried. The State benefited not only from the fines and costs, but also from the sale of the confiscated liquor.

While construction work was in progress in the hills section of the line numerous reports were received by the police that a certain storekeeper in a hills township was carrying on a flourishing sly grog trade in addition to his legitimate business. It was being done, apparently, quite openly.

It so happened, however, that at that time a new trooper joined the police force. He had had experience of police work in England, however, and eventually retired from the South Australian force as an inspector. He was given the job of finding out whether there was any foundation for these complaints.

In order to do so he took a job as a laborer on a nearby farm. He casually visited the storekeeper and found that the complaints were justified, as spirits could be obtained and consumed on the premises. From time to time he made purchases, and eventually bought a bottle of whisky of a well-known brand. He took it back with him to the farm marked on the label the date, hour, and price paid, and where it had been obtained. He then hid it in the chaff shed. He stayed at the farm for a week or two keeping an eye on the storekeeper.

After a time, however, a rumor spread around that the farm-hand was not as innocent as he appeared. Some one had seen him in Adelaide at the Police Court. The farmer did not believe it. He mentioned the rumor to his employe, and on being asked by the latter what he thought of it, replied. 'I don't believe a word of it, for no detective could have done farm work as you have done.'

The constable's work was done, so he told the farmer that he would be leaving shortly. 'Til be very sorry if you go, because you suit me,' the latter replied, 'but perhaps it is just as well. Some of the fellows about here seem to have a set on you, and there is no telling but what they might do you an injury.' The constable thanked the farmer and prepared to leave. He went to the chaff-house, picked up his swag, and also the bottle of whisky, and proceeded to the police station to make his report. He had every reason to feel pleased with his work.

On arriving there, he looked at the bottle of whisky, and noticed, to his amazement, that the capsule had been tampered with. The liquid in the bottle was of a different color to what it had been when he bought it. His suspicions fully aroused, he drew the cork, poured some of the contents into a glass, and smelt it. It was weak, cold tea. He realised that the other farm hands had hoaxed him.

The case duly came on. Everyone in the district knew about it, and the storekeeper engaged two eminent lawyers to defend him. All knew that a big rise was to be taken out of an enterprising constable. The courthouse was crowded with the defendant's friends, who were waiting impatiently for the fun to begin.

The evidence for the prosecution was given, and the constable produced in court the bottle he had bought from the storekeeper complete with the markings on it made at the time. Cross-examined by one of the lawyers, he was asked whether he would swear that the bottle produced in court was the one he had purchased from the storekeeper, and that it contained whisky. 'Yes. I will,' said the constable emphatically. The case for the prosecution was closed, and the leading lawyer for the defence got up. Raising himself to his full height, he turned slowly towards the spectators in court, his face wreathed in smiles. Knowing that he had made an impression, he turned and addressed the Bench.

'Your Honor,' he said. 'My client will admit that owing to the persistency of Constable X to be supplied with a bottle of whisky, he did sell him the bottle produced in court. I will ask your Honor to have the bottle opened, and will prove to the satisfaction of the court that it is not whisky, but tea diluted with water.'

Loud laughter from the defendant and others in court was at once suppressed. The fun had started at last. A corkscrew and two glasses were quickly produced. The cork was drawn, and some of the contents of the bottle poured into the glasses. Counsel retained one, and the presiding magistrate took the other. He smelt it, and then raised the glass to his lips. He drank some of the contents, and looked at the astonished counsel, who had also smelt and tasted the liquor in his glass.

'I, too, am prepared to say that it is whisky;' he told the amazed crowd. The astonishment of the defendant and his lawyers was worth seeing. The defendant was found guilty and fined the usual amount. They left the court, not nearly as jubilant as when they had entered it.

The constable was a Scotsman, and whether that was the reason or not, he was not easily outwitted. He realised as soon as he discovered what had been done that if the bottle could be filled with cold tea, it could also be again filled with whisky. He therefore went immediately to the nearest hotel and bought a bottle of the same brand of whisky. He then returned to the police station, emptied out the cold tea from the bottle he had bought from the store keeper, and refilled it with the whisky from the one he had just bought, carefully recording it with a fresh cork and replacing the capsule neatly over the top of it. The exhibit then was as good as when he had bought it.— C.V.H.

See complete article, in Memoirs of an Old Policeman 30 Sep 1925

A Head-On Collision

Some years ago there were lively scenes on pay nights at a country town which had been a railhead for some years before construction was pushed forward from it. Hundreds of navvies came in from the camps at Five Mile and Seven Mile each Friday night bent upon dissipating their pay in the public houses with the greatest possible expedition and rowdiness.

About four o'clock on Saturday mornings a 'Drunks' Special' was run out to the camps from the town, the police and volunteer townsmen rounding up the incapables and putting them on board before they could smash the town up further as they revived.

Among them was an enormous mountain of a man, named Grimsby, who was foremost in work and play, and who would have been a ganger but for the drink. As it was, he became a thorn in the side of every overseer, for he made it a practice to challenge them one by one as he struck them in town on Fridays.

One ganger in particular, named Sloane, excited his wrath, and Sloane soon found it advisable to keep well out of Grimsby's way when in town. Grimsby then waited for his man on the 'Drunks' Special,' and practically wrecked the train in the course of a combat that lasted all the way out to the construction camp.

The following week Government officials and policemen conferred on how a repetition of the brawl could be prevented. A tactful young navvy, a friend of both Sloane and Grimsby, was called into conference, and under-took to see that the pair were kept apart, provided a fettler's tricycle was made available for him. Permission to use one was readily granted.

The young man made it his business to accompany Grimsby in his round of the public houses. He manipulated matters so that he avoided the houses Sloane was frequenting, and at the same time reduced Grimsby to a state of hopeless intoxication. About three in the morning he enlisted the aid of two or three reasonably sober companions and loaded Grimsby's unconscious body on the tricycle. He then set to work to drive the contrivance out to Five Mile.

Over half the journey was completed when the fresh air restored Grimsby to consciousness, and with drunken cunning he saw through the plot to separate him from Sloane. Afraid, naturally enough, to be involved in a single handed fight with the giant, the young man had no choice but to agree, when Grimsby insisted upon going back to the town and catching the 'Drunks' Special.'

For some miles the pair worked the handles of the tricycle in silence, Grimsby's iron muscles sending it along faster than it had ever travelled before. His companion was facing the direction that they were travelling, and suddenly called out in alarm: — 'Pull-up! We're going straight into the special!'

Grimsby looked round and verified the fact. In his fuddled condition, however, he still kept on working the tricycle while he thought things out. Suddenly an inspiration came to him, and he leered drunkenly at his companion. 'Give us a hand with the handle, Jack,' he demanded. 'We'll get a bit of speed up, and knock her off the rails! I'll fix Sloane!'

Jack sprang at him in a frantic endeavor to push the intoxicated maniac off the tricycle, but an iron fist took him in the chest and knocked him straight down an embankment by the side of the permanent way. Still half stunned. Jack remembered that there was a point close by, and struggled up and threw over the lever. Just in the nick of time, the tricycle was diverted on to a runaway, down which it ran until it collided heavily with the buffers on the dead-end. The shock threw Grimsby straight over the buffers, and injured him severely on a pile of metal.

When he came out of hospital the realisation of his narrow escape sobered him down a lot, and he made no further attempt to attack Sloane, whom he regarded in some queer fashion as worthy of respect for having outwitted him. Instead, he turned round and administered a sound thrashing to young Jack for knocking him about, apparently failing to realise that the youngster had saved his life from the suicidal project that had taken possession of his drunken brain. — 'Greenhide.'

A Feline Fisher

Cats are, as a rule, averse to water, but when I was living on the Murray a few years ago there was a cat there which was an excellent swimmer and fisher, and as fond of the water as a cocker spaniel. When fishing, she did not confine herself to any one portion of the stream, and whether the water was deep or shallow, it was all one to her.

This cat not only fished herself but taught her children to do so, too. The way in which she managed this was very amusing, and shows how extremely sagacious feline nature is. When the kittens came of sufficient age she would take them down to a part of the stream where the water was clear and shallow. Here the smaller fish would be swimming about, and, making a spring, she would seize one and bring it out alive. After letting it jump about for a time to amuse the kittens and attract their attention, she would kill it and return it to the stream, jumping after it and playing with it in the water to entice a kitten in. Thus, in course of time, the kittens could all swim and fish, and rivalled even their mother in quickness and daring. — J.R.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1937, May 20). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92484131