Mrs. Sadlier's Champions

Mrs. Sadlier's Champions

With his thumbs in his shiny belt last week Constable Arthur Jex of Worthing, Sussex stomached up to a suspicious looking character who gave the name of Leonard Rowland Hill.

"Now hold on, now, hold on." said Constable Jex. "There are a few things you and I ought to have a little talk about."

Within the past week two serious burglaries had taken place in the neighborhood and things seemed to point to Leonard Rowland Hill. But shifty Leonard was in no mood for even a little talk. Suddenly he pulled a pistol from his pocket, shot and wounded Constable Arthur Jex.

All Britain was as shocked as the constable. Did Sussex nurture another Dillinger? Was Worthing to be the Chicago of the Downs? The County armed. Huge Webley & Scott revolvers were issued to the local police, a fact that produced eight column headlines in the London Press. Brass-helmeted firemen were mobilized. Hundreds of volunteers scoured the hedgerows and lanes in cars and on chugging motor bikes. Unasked, Sir Oswald Mosley's Black Shirts joined the man hunt.

One midnight somebody remembered that Mrs. Sadlier, over across the Downs, kept bloodhounds. Mrs. Sadlier is the wife of Author-Publisher Michael Sadlier (Constable & Co.) whose writings range from a commentary and bibliography of Anthony Trollope to a monograph on the history of publishers' bindings. He changed his name from Sadler to Sadlier to avoid confusion with his equally distinguished father, Sir Michael Ernest Sadler, Master of University College, Oxford.

Mrs. Sadlier not only breeds bloodhounds but champion ones which she herself trains. Because of her husband's interest in Trollope her kennel name is Barchester. At 3 a. m. police rolled up to the door and routed her out of bed. Mrs. Sadlier is a sportswoman born; her father, Canon Albert Darell Tupper-Carey, has the sporting post of Chaplain at Monte Carlo. Shaking the sleep from her eyes she called:

"A man hunt? Rather! Wait till I pop into a jumper and I'll be right down."

Out of the kennels she led two of the saddest beasts in the world, the furrow-browed bitch Champion Sarah of Barchester and Champion Huntsman. Over they went to the house, at Myrtle Grove, where the last burglary was committed. Whiffling mournfully, the leashed hounds were led to a broken window. Champion Sarah suddenly threw up her head and howled. Almost instantly both hounds were scrambling on the trail. Red-faced, hot and excited. Mrs. Sadlier pounded along, her champions nearly pulling her arms out. Up a hill they raced, through copses and hedges and across fields. Dawn was just breaking.

Two miles from Myrtle Grove Champion Huntsman ceased baying and threw back his head, trembling. Champion Sarah pulled away to the left.

"I say!" called Mrs. Sadlier to the police trudging along behind her. "Look there under that tree--something crouching--I think we've got him!"

It was Leonard Rowland Hill. In the hours of his hiding, with the baying of Mrs. Michael Sadlier's hounds in his ears, he had come to realize what a dreadful thing it is to shoot at a British policeman. Almost at her feet he pulled his pistol again and blew out his brains.

"I say," said Mrs. Michael Sadlier, "it's just like a film!"

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