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The Tale of the Wet Hoof

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A Constable and an Inspector stood beneath the deep purple sky, lamenting the death of a fine man.

“Alas, poor Sherrod!” cried the Inspector, taking the ex-man’s hand.

The Constable, more impartial, scrutinised the victim’s injuries. “Looks to be a trampling most foul.”

“Such a wicked deed. Who art the swine to blame?”

“Hark!” said the Constable. “Something undulates o’er yon hill!”

In the distance, the two policemen spied the convulsing figure of CLOP, who appeared to be struggling to walk over a rock.

“Fie! ’Tis that bootless unicorn on the mead again. Get thee after that bawdy equine!” demanded the Inspector.

Despite the Constable’s rotund state of unfitness, he quickly gained ground on his target.

“Ho there, CLOP!” he called, panting laboriously.

“Constable. I have not the time for thee.” The unicorn continued to beat his legs against the ground ineffectually.

The Constable was not an unobservant man so he soon noticed the incriminating blood splatter lining his companion’s hooves.

“Ho there, CLOP!” he called again. “Halt! I demand thee.”

Knowing the game would soon be up, CLOP put on an enormous burst of speed. His limbs flew about madly as he battled his way over a patch of rocks. The Constable could only look on in bewilderment as the creature approached the edge of a small cliff.

Before either knew what was happening, CLOP reached the edge of the precipice and gently overturned, landing on his horn. Try as he might to flail his legs about, he was stuck.

“Confound thee!” he exclaimed as the Constable proudly cuffed him. “And confound Sherrod!”