“How foolish of you to run such a risk!” said Selina. “I brought it for Miss Gunnill,” said the young man, simply. He unfastened the parcel, and to the astonishment of all present revealed a policeman’s helmet and a short boxwood truncheon. “You—you’re a wonder,” said the gloating Mr. Gunnill. “Look at it, Ted!” Mr. Drill _was_ looking at it; it may be doubted whether the head of Mr. Cooper itself could have caused him more astonishment. Then his eyes sought those of Mr. Sims, but that gentleman was gazing tenderly at the gratified but shocked Selina. “How ever did you do it?” inquired Mr. Gunnill. “Came behind him and threw him down,” said Mr. Sims, nonchalantly. “He was that scared I believe I could have taken his boots as well if I’d wanted them.” Mr. Gunnill patted him on the back. “I fancy I can see him running bare-headed through the town calling for help,” he said, smiling. Mr. Sims shook his head. “Like as not it’ll be kept quiet for the credit of the force,” he said, slowly, “unless, of course, they discover who did it.” A slight shade fell on the good-humoured countenance of Mr. Gunnill, but it was chased away almost immediately by Sims reminding him of the chaff of Cooper’s brother-constables. “And you might take the others away,” said Mr. Gunnill, brightening; “you might keep on doing it.” Mr. Sims said doubtfully that he might, but pointed out that Cooper would probably be on his guard for the future. “Yes, you’ve done your share,” said Miss Gunnill, with a half-glance at Mr. Drill, who was still gazing in a bewildered fashion at the trophies. “You can come into the kitchen and help me draw some beer if you like.” Mr. Sims followed her joyfully, and reaching down a jug for her watched her tenderly as she drew the beer. All women love valour, but Miss Gunnill, gazing sadly at the slight figure of Mr. Sims, could not help wishing that Mr. Drill possessed a little of his spirit. [Illustration] She had just finished her task when a tremendous bumping noise was heard in the living-room, and the plates on the dresser were nearly shaken off their shelves. “What’s that?” she cried. They ran to the room and stood aghast in the doorway at the spectacle of Mr. Gunnill, with his clenched fists held tightly by his side, bounding into the air with all the grace of a trained acrobat, while Mr. Drill encouraged him from an easy-chair. Mr. Gunnill smiled broadly as he met their astonished gaze, and with a final bound kicked something along the floor and subsided into his seat panting. Mr. Sims, suddenly enlightened, uttered a cry of dismay and, darting under the table, picked up what had once been a policeman’s helmet. Then he snatched a partially consumed truncheon from the fire, and stood white and trembling before the astonished Mr. Gunnill. “What’s the matter?” inquired the latter. “You—you’ve spoilt ’em,” gasped Mr. Sims. “What of it?” said Mr. Gunnill, staring. “I was—going to take ’em away,” stammered Mr. Sims.