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Updated: May 21, 2025
If Ellsworth Remsen, ten-millionaire and Knickerbocker, had just rescued pomegranate blossoms and Scotch cap from possible death, where was Policeman O'Roon? Off his beat, exposed, disgraced, discharged. Love had come, but before that there had been something that demanded precedence the fellowship of men on battlefields fighting an alien foe.
They'll take away my shield and break me. I can think and talk con-con-consec-sec-secutively, but I s-s-stammer with my feet. I've got to go on duty in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The jig is up, I tell you." "Look at me," said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to his own face; "whom do you see here?" "Goo' fellow," said O'Roon, dizzily, "Goo' old Remsen." "Not so," said Remsen.
"No trouble at all," said Remsen. "I know a lot of men who have banks and stores and things downtown. Any particular line you fancy?" "Yes," said O'Roon, with a look of interest. "I took a walk in your Central Park this morning. I'd like to be one of those bobbies on horseback. That would be about the ticket. Besides, it's the only thing I could do. I can ride a little and the fresh air suits me.
You're not O'Roon, but it seems to me if you'd lean to the right you could reach the reins of that foolish slow-running bay ah! you're all right; O'Roon couldn't have done it more neatly!" The runaway team was tugged to an inglorious halt by Remsen's tough muscles. The driver released his hands from the wrapped reins, jumped from his seat and stood at the heads of the team.
I opened it, and took out something that I had seen before, and this typewritten letter from a magazine that encourages society fiction: Your short story, "The Badge of Policeman O'Roon," is herewith returned. We are sorry that it has been unfavorably passed upon; but it seems to lack in some of the essential requirements of our publication.
If Hudson Van Sweller, in policeman's uniform, has saved the life of palpitating beauty in the park where is Mounted Policeman O'Roon, in whose territory the deed is done? How quickly by a word can the hero reveal himself, thus discarding his masquerade of ineligibility and doubling the romance! But there is his friend! Van Sweller touches his cap.
Now, one night in New York there are commemorations and libations by old comrades, and in the morning, Mounted Policeman O'Roon, unused to potent liquids another premise hazardous in fiction finds the earth bucking and bounding like a bronco, with no stirrup into which he may insert foot and save his honor and his badge. Noblesse oblige? Surely.
And when daylight threatened them the survivors prepared to depart. But some remained upon the battlefield. One of these was Trooper O'Roon, who was not seasoned to potent liquids. His legs declined to fulfil the obligations they had sworn to the police department. "I'm stewed, Remsen," said O'Roon to his friend. "Why do they build hotels that go round and round like catherine wheels?
One day a well set up, affable, cool young man disturbed him at his club, and he and O'Roon were soon pounding each other and exchanging opprobrious epithets after the manner of long-lost friends. O'Roon looked seedy and out of luck and perfectly contented. But it seemed that his content was only apparent. "Get me a job, Remsen," he said. "I've just handed a barber my last shilling."
The policeman was again a well set up, affable, cool young man who sat by the window smoking cigars. "I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses, brass buttons and men who can't drink two glasses of brut without getting upset were at the devil," said Remsen feelingly. O'Roon smiled with evident satisfaction. "Good old Remsen," he said, affably, "I know all about it.
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