“Me a thief!” gasped Hobbs, roused to realities; “why, I’ve worked ever since I was twelve, and me sixty-three now; I was never a thief, Sir.  Look at me hands.”

The constable inspected them critically.  “They’re a bit horny certainly; but then that may be only your dam artfulness.  Come on and talk to the Sergeant.”

The Railway Police-Sergeant briskly inquired his name, address, occupation and all the rest of it.  Hobbs gave a good account of himself and mentioned that he had worked in our family for forty-two years.

“Any visiting-cards, correspondence or other papers to identify you?” asked the Sergeant mechanically.  He had said it so often to the people who cry “Season!  Season!” when there is no Season.

Hobbs confessed to having none of these things; and no, he knew no one in London.

“Then you’ll stay here till four,” pronounced the Sergeant, “and we’ll see if this good lady of yours comes along.”

But, alas! no Mrs. Hobbs appeared.  “Must have missed the train,” suggested Hobbs despairingly.  “P’r’aps the trap broke down or something.”

There was only one more train, it seemed, and that was not due until nine.

“Oh, I don’t think my missus ’ud like to be so late as that,” said the suspect.  “She’d wait till the morning.  I don’t reckon she’ll come to-night.”

“No more don’t I.”  The constable was beginning to enjoy himself.  “If I was you I should drop the bluff and own I was fair caught.  If you was to ask me, I should say you didn’t look like a married man at all.  We’ll see what the Sergeant says now.”

The Sergeant was accordingly consulted.  He too was rather sceptical.

“If there’s any truth in what you say you’d better wire to this gentleman at Monk’s Langford that you say you work for, and try if we can identify you somehow,” he advised.  And to the constable, “Take him to the Telegraph Office and let him send his wire.  Then bring him back here.  Mind he don’t give you the slip.”

So Hobbs, sighing deeply and perspiring freely, wrote his message:  “Sir, they have got me in the police-station here and say I am a suspected person, which you know I never was, having worked for you, Sir, and your father for forty-two years.  But the Sargeant here says he wants proofs, and you, Sir, must vouch for me as being respectable, which you know I am, and none of us was ever thieves.  So will you please do so, Sir, and oblige, as this leaves me at present, George Hobbs.”

The clerk glanced at it.  “It’s a long message,” he said; “it’ll cost four or five shillings.”

Hobbs hadn’t got that—­no, really he hadn’t.

The constable standing on guard, rather bored, interposed, “We ain’t asking you to write a book about it.”

“No, Sir, I couldn’t do that,” replied Hobbs anxiously.  “What would you say, Sir, if you was me?”

“Don’t ask me,” answered the policeman.  “It’s your wire, not mine.  Send something you can pay for.  We only wants to find out if you’re the person you say you are.  Daresay you’d like me to write it for you, and you ’op it while I done it.  I seen your kind before.  Try again, mate.”