Mr. Wriford was a little tickled at this gentleman's appearance and, of the reckless mood that had him--panting, flaming, bruised, exulting--was not at all inclined to be hectored in the way that the _hur!_ seemed to suggest was the sergeant's custom. Trained, however, to the Londoner's proper respect for a policeman, he answered, still panting: "There's been a bit of a fight." "Saw that--hur!" said the sergeant. "Three of you when I come along. Where's the other--hur!" "In the ditch," said Mr. Wriford. "Can't you hear him?" The sergeant carried his drum carefully to the sound of the winded groans and, lowering it so far as he was able, peered over its circumference at the prostrate wagoner. In this position his posterior development, called upon to exercise its counterbalancing effect in the highest degree, displayed itself to immense advantage, and Mr. Wriford eyed it with a twitching of his face that spoke of a sudden freakish thought. The sergeant readjusted his drum and turned upon him: "Who's done this? Hur!" "Been a fight, I tell you," said Mr. Wriford, and laughed at the idea that had been in his mind and at the look it would have caused on the sergeant's face if he had executed it. The sergeant drew in a breath that raised the drum in a motion that spelt rufflement. "Don't want you to tell me nothing but what you're asked," he said. "Man lying here hurt. Case of assault--hur!" He moved the drum slowly in the direction of Mr. Puddlebox and this time "hured" before he spoke. "Hur! Thought I knew you as I come along. Seen you afore--in the dock,--ain't I?" "I've been in so many," said Mr. Puddlebox amicably, wiping his face from which the sweat streamed, "that if I've omitted yours, you must put it down to oversight, not unfriendliness." "None o' that!" returned the sergeant. "No sauce. I know yer. Charged with assault, both of yer, an' anything said used evidence against yer. Hur! Who's this man down here?" "Look and see if you know him," Mr. Wriford suggested. "I don't." The drum was again advanced to the ditch, and the counterbalancing operation again very carefully put into process. Mr. Wriford's eyes danced with the wild idea that possessed him. To cap this tremendous hullabaloo in which he had been in it! in it! in it! To fly the wildest flight of all! To overturn, with a walloping kick, a policeman! He drew near to Mr. Puddlebox and pulled his sleeve to attract his attention. "Why, that's George!" said the sergeant, midway in operation of his counterbalancing machine. "That's old George Huggs--hur!" "Can't be!" said Mr. Wriford and pulled Mr. Puddlebox's sleeve, and pointed first at the tremendous uniformed stern gingerly lowering the tunic-ed drum, then at his own foot, then down the road. "Can't be!" returned the sergeant. "What yer mean, can't be! That's Miller Derrybill's George Huggs. George! George, you've got to come out and prosecute. George, I say--hur!"