He took off his battered helmet with a flourish and, amid a murmur of sympathy, displayed a nasty cut on his head.  A sergeant and a constable, both running, appeared round the corner and made towards’ them.

“Get back to the station and make your report,” said the former, as Constable Evans, in a somewhat defiant voice, repeated his story.  “You’ve done your best; I can see that.”

Mr. Evans, enacting to perfection the part of a wounded hero, limped painfully off, praying devoutly as he went that the criminals might make good their escape.  If not, he reflected that the word of a policeman was at least equal to that of three burglars.

He repeated his story at the station, and, after having his head dressed, was sent home and advised to keep himself quiet for a day or two.  He was off duty for four days, and, the Tunwich Gazette having devoted a column to the affair, headed “A Gallant Constable,” modestly secluded himself from the public gaze for the whole of that time.

To Mr. Grummit, who had read the article in question until he could have repeated it backwards, this modesty was particularly trying.  The constable’s yard was deserted and the front door ever closed.  Once Mr. Grummit even went so far as to tap with his nails on the front parlour window, and the only response was the sudden lowering of the blind.  It was not until a week afterwards that his eyes were gladdened by a sight of the constable sitting in his yard; and fearing that even then he might escape him, he ran out on tip-toe and put his face over the fence before the latter was aware of his presence.

“Wot about that ’ere burglary?” he demanded in truculent tones.

“Good evening, Grummit,” said the constable, with a patronizing air.

“Wot about that burglary?” repeated Mr. Grummit, with a scowl.  “I don’t believe you ever saw a burglar.”

Mr. Evans rose and stretched himself gracefully.  “You’d better run indoors, my good man,” he said, slowly.

“Telling all them lies about burglars,” continued the indignant Mr. Grummit, producing his newspaper and waving it.  “Why, I gave you that black eye, I smashed your ’elmet, I cut your silly ’ead open, I——­”

“You’ve been drinking,” said the other, severely.

“You mean to say I didn’t?” demanded Mr. Grummit, ferociously.

Mr. Evans came closer and eyed him steadily.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, calmly.

Mr. Grummit, about to speak, stopped appalled at such hardihood.

“Of course, if you mean to say that you were one o’ them burglars,” continued the constable, “why, say it and I’ll take you with pleasure.  Come to think of it, I did seem to remember one o’ their voices.”

Mr. Grummit, with his eyes fixed on the other’s, backed a couple of yards and breathed heavily.

“About your height, too, he was,” mused the constable.  “I hope for your sake you haven’t been saying to anybody else what you said to me just now.”