“They went that way, but I suppose you didn't see them,” continued the householder. “Halloa!” he added, as somebody opened the hall door and the constable's damaged condition became visible in the gas-light. “Are you hurt?” “Yes,” said Mr. Evans, who was trying hard to think clearly. To gain time he blew a loud call on his whistle. “The rascals!” continued the other. “I think I should know the big chap with a beard again, but the others were too quick for me.” Mr. Evans blew his whistle again—thoughtfully. The opportunity seemed too good to lose. “Did they get anything?” he inquired. “Not a thing,” said the owner, triumphantly. “I was disturbed just in time.” The constable gave a slight gulp. “I saw the three running by the side of the road,” he said, slowly. “Their behaviour seemed suspicious, so I collared the big one, but they set on me like wild cats. They had me down three times; the last time I laid my head open against the kerb, and when I came to my senses again they had gone.” 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.