From far up the deserted street just one sound broke the stillness, a particularly cheerful, but tuneless, whistle which, as it came nearer, brought into view an elephantine youth who approached with a flat-footed shuffle, his shoes flapping noisily, as if they might be trying to mark time to their owner's musical efforts. The village fat boy, drawing closer, left off whistling and turned to song, singing in a shrill treble, "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas to-day." Wiggly stepped from the cab to intercept him, and for no reason at all, unless it were taken for granted that it was outward evidence of an otherwise unexpressed mirth, Wiggly's ears twitched. "Say, son," Wiggly said briskly, "do you know where Constable Griggs lives?" For the moment Master Frederick Throgmorton, as the local juvenile heavyweight was named, was totally bereft of speech, completely hypnotized by the amazing gymnastics of Jimmy Price's ears. "Huh?" he finally gulped. "Whatcha--whatcha say?" "I said: Do you know where Constable Griggs lives?" "Sure--sure thing," gasped Fatty Frederick. "Right--right down this street--third block, second house from the corner. Say, mister, tell a feller somethin'--how did you learn to do it?" Wiggly flushed, as he always did when reminded of his refractory appendages, and he dived swiftly back into the cab, as he gave the chauffeur further directions. The taxi shot forward with a jerk. Less than a minute later they had negotiated the three blocks, and the New York newspaper man was on the sidewalk and at the picket gate of the Griggs cottage. Etta, the constable's daughter, was ambitious, but her ambition was centered upon becoming a playwright and did not, as a rule, extend to early rising. But this morning she was up, fully dressed, and, at the moment of Wiggly Price's ring, pressing her father for further details of the Greenacres murder. For once in her life she was actually taking some pride in the fact that her parent was a constable. And Ham Griggs willingly sacrificed his intended "forty winks" that he might elaborate, none too modestly, on the part he had played; after all, it was something to be a hero to the critical and exacting Etta. "I wouldn't be a lot surprised," he was saying, "that the reporter feller will be wantin' my pitcher to put in the paper. There ain't no use for me to deny, Etty, that I done a purty slick piece of work. I knowed the minute I clapped eyes on the Eyetalian that he was the one that done it. Wouldn't be surprised but what I'd better scoot down to Jess Burnside's pitcher gallery an' have some new pitchers struck; I ain't set for a pitcher since----" He was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Father and daughter had been so absorbed that they had not heard the arrival of the taxi.