The stern old Ribe justice had but a leg and a half left to stand on, as it were, in my day. The effective police force of the town consisted of two able-bodied night-watchmen and a beadle with a game leg, but with a temper and an oaken staff that more than made up for his other defects. In ordinary times, always excepting New Year’s Eve, when it was the privilege of the Old Town to cut up as it saw fit, this was quite sufficient to preserve the public peace, for brawling as an occupation had long ceased, and crime was almost unknown. The commotion that was caused by a real burglary when I was a little lad can therefore be understood. As a matter of fact there was nothing very alarming about the crime. The thief had merely forced a door, that was fastened after the simple fashion of the day and place with a wooden whorl, and taken some money from an open drawer; but he had cut his hand in doing it, and there were smears of blood on the wall that made the mystery ever so much more dreadful to us all. To cap the climax, it was public property he had taken, the King’s money, for it was the custom-house he had robbed. The whole community was aroused, and the town council met promptly to consider the emergency. It is fair to state that it distinctly rose to it. The records of that meeting are still in existence. The business in hand, so they state, being to catch the thief, it was suggested by a member that this could not be done while the watchmen clattered about at night in wooden clogs and cried the hours; for so they gave warning to any evil-doer who might be lurking around. To this the meeting agreed, and it was resolved that they must henceforth cease bawling and put on boots--and rubbers. The sum of four daler was voted to equip the force with these police accoutrements, and was duly entered in the budget of the town to be raised by taxation. [Illustration: A WATCHMAN.] The thief, if I remember rightly, was never caught, but the event proved that the departure from the ancient landmarks was too radical. Thief or no thief, the town could by no possibility sleep without being awakened hourly by the cry of the watchmen; or if it did go to sleep it didn’t know it, which was almost, if not quite, as bad. Universal insomnia threatened to wreck its peace. Within a month the entire community, headed by the councilmen themselves, petitioned the municipality to unloose again the watchmen’s tongues. A compromise was made upon the basis of the boots, and was religiously kept till within a year, when, I am told, the crying of the hour finally ceased.