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Constable and Beach Comber


            “The beach is a veritable gold mine of shells right now,” said the Constable.
            “Ah, no it’s not,” said the beach comber. “I came up from the beach just today, just now, and I did not find a single shell.”
            “That’s because you don’t know what a true shell looks like.”
            “Why, yes I do, I've got one right here.” The beach comber pulled a shell out of his knapsack. “Look here — this is a seashell. The waves washed it up all nice and sound, white as the back of a baby’s hand.”
            “You sure you don’t mean a baby’s palm?”
            “Yes, can’t you tell?” The back of the hand is quite a bit smoother – pearlier, if you will, than the palm.”
            “But the palm has more character,” the Constable argued. He turned his palm up and studied it in the morning light.
            “Yes, I see your point,” the beach comber said, and pondered the matter a while. “Still,” said the beach comber, “This shell doesn't have enough character to be a baby’s palm.”
            “Why, I never said that shell was a baby’s palm! In fact, you just said so but I never did. I said the shell was like a baby palm, that’s all, more than the back of a baby’s hand.”
            The two men stood on the pier and wondered about the issue.
            “Dickens!” exclaimed the Constable. “If there was not a single shell on the beach just now, where did you get that shell?”
            The beach comber gulped. “Oh, this is not a shell. I never said it was! It’s quite the opposite. This,” he said with emphasis, “Is an anti-shell.”
            “What is an anti-shell?” The Constable wanted to know.
            “An anti-shell looks and acts like a shell, and gives the appearance of being a shell, but it absolutely is not a shell.”
            “Ah!” the Constable exclaimed. “Like fools’ gold!” he paced. “Let me see that again so I know for sure what’s a shell and what’s an anti-shell.”
            “You can’t see it.”
            “Why not?”
            “I threw it over the pier just now.”
            “Blimey!” hollered the Constable, “What did you do that for? Now some poor sap is going to find it and think it’s a real shell!”
            “Ah,” sighed the beach comber, “No one could be fooled by that sort of shell but you. Do you know the difference between a shell and an anti-shell?”
            “No! How could I, since you threw it over the pier? You hopscotch!” the Constable growled.
            “You’re wrong again!” The beach comber shook his head. “I did not throw the anti-shell over the pier, I threw the shell over the pier.” The beach comber pulled the anti-shell out of his pocket.
            “Ah! Idiot!” the Constable accused. “Why did you do that?”
            “Because anti-shells are more bonafide than shells! Anti-shells are worth something, you know. Everyone knows about anti-shells being bonafide.”
            “Not everyone,” declared the Constable defensively. “I didn't know until you told me.” He tucked in his chin.
            The beach comber looked away sheepishly. “Well you’re absolutely right I’m afraid. . . . You’re the Constable, aren't you, and that’s someone, isn't it.”
            Silence.
            The beach comber rubbed his chin. “Ah! You’re someone but not everyone! So am I, and I am right.”
            Silence.
            “Tell me something, mate," the Constable folded his arms. How do you have a shell if there was not a single shell on the beach?”
            The beach comber threw the shell over the pier and held his open palms up, grinning. “I don’t have a shell! Not a single shell!” He whistled and strolled down the pier, winking at the gypsies and nodding at the Ferris wheels.
            

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