Town Crier

Wilmington Crusader, May 1951

Raccoon up a tree

Richard Ferlan of Mari­on Street reported to the Wilmington Police on May 7 that a raccoon had been stealing chickens on his place, and that the raccoon was at present treed, outside his house.

The cruiser went up, to give the police a little chance, mayhap at raccoon hunting. The Ferlans live in one of the old But­ters houses, almost in back of the Apple monument, and there, up in an elm tree, was Mr. Rac­coon. The story was given to the police, Ferlan’s chickens were disappearing, and this raccoon was the guilty varmint.

“Do you want him kil­led?” the officer asked.

“Yes, that (raccoon) is killing our chickens.”

As the police prepared to do their duty, there came a hail from across a small stream.

“Don’t kill that (raccoon)!” yelled Harry Mil­ler. “He ain’t done nothing.”

Miller, who owned the Ferlan house, came over to the police.

“That (raccoon) has a right to live,” he said. “If anyone says he has been killing chickens, let him prove it!”

The police looked at the Ferlans. No one was prepared to say that he had seen that raccoon kill a chicken. No one had seen anything.

The police went back to their cruiser.

The raccoon — well, he is still up in the tree, we guess.

Not this time, boys

Some of Wilmington’s boys began to see things Saturday when a new po­lice cruiser was hauled down to Gildart’s (Chev­rolet dealer) in a very wrecked condition. There were several persons who looked for the Town Ma­nager to announce, gleefully, that Wilmington’s police cruiser had been wrecked again.

Except, the wrecked crui­ser was Burlington’s.

It so happened that the Town Manager knew better. He had been following the Wilmington cruiser, checking on the way our police drove it, on account of insurance rates, on which he was working.

Crusader, July 18, 1951

A patrolman’s life is a merry one

Twas a balmy Saturday evening and the sergeant sat behind the desk, getting ready to go on duty on the midnight to 8 a.m. shift. Just as midnight tolled, an excited citizen came in, trying very hard to be very calm. He re­ported there had been a holdup at Rusty’s garage.

The sergeant lifted one eyebrow, slowly.

“Honest,” the man continued, “I saw the guy on the sidewalk.”

The sergeant called the patrolman in from the corner and the two jumped into the cruiser, and were soon on their way to Rus­ty’s. There they found several citizens, all discussing the event, but nobody knew where “the guy” was.

“He went off in a car,” said one man. “Somebody took him somewhere.”

“He’s on his way to the hospital.”

“He’s on his way to the police station.”

And lastly, “I don’t know. He went away.”

The police checked the garage and drove back to the station. In the square, two cars were parked abreast, the drivers obviously talking about the holdup. The patrolman slipped out and went down to listen in, and, oh yes, to get that car off the street.

There was no one in the station. The sergeant look­ed around a bit and decided to call Rusty. He dialed the number. The telephone buzzed in the manner that telephones buzz in when the number is being rung. It buzzed and buzzed.

In walked a young fellow.

“The telephone’s ringing at Rusty’s and no one is home,” he volunteered.

“What do you know about this?” said the sarge, letting the phone ring.

“Oh,” said the young fellow, “I saw the guy at Rus­ty’s and I took him home. He had been having a little too much of the Fourth of July!

“No,” he continued, “there was no holdup. I am positive. I know the guy and I took care of him.”

“OK,” said the sarge, hanging up the phone.

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