Mr. John Stott's Difficulty

Less than forty years ago, in a certain west country town of England, lived Mr. John Stott, head of the constabulary, so astute a thief-catcher that his friends thought it a pity he should throw his wits away upon provincial vagabonds, and not give them broad and noble scope as a Bow Street runner. His enemies, the local scoundrels, thought the same; but contented themselves with observing darkly that “he was so sharp that he would one day probably cut himself,” or that “he was too clever to live.” In spite of these intellectual advantages, or in consequence of them, Mr. Stott was as vain as a peacock, and made the not uncommon mistake of imagining himself even a cleverer fellow than he really was. He kept the little town (for it was a little one then) so clear of evil-doers, and got so complimented thereupon by the bench of magistrates, that he could not conceive that any misdemeanor could be committed which his sagacity should be unable to ferret out, or should fail to bring it home to the true culprit. “I don’t pretend for to say,” was one of his favorite remarks, “as I was never puzzled in my profession, but this I will say, as no man ever took me in twice”; and then he would resume his pipe with the air of a man who has modestly confessed to a weakness, which no other person would have dreamed of attributing to him. Even his wife believed in Mr. John Stott, and so doubtless would his valet de chamber, if he had happened to have kept one.

“Burglary at Sir Robert Air’s last night,” said he, sententiously, as he sat smoking after supper in his snug little parlor, one summer evening, while his wife mixed his gin-punch after his own particular receipt.

“You have got the wretches, of course,” observed Mrs. Stott, paring the lemon-peel so that you could see… Read More