“Ay,” answered Tommy.
“And there was a little sprinkle o’ snow in the cart?”
“May be there wos. I don’t remember one way or the other.”
“Then you must be a stupid if you don’t see that this here cove,” pointing to the dead man, “got drinking too much last night, lost hisself, and wandered inside the hoarding, where he fell asleep in the cart.”
“Snow do make a fellow bloomin’ sleepy,” one of the crowd assented.
“Well, he never wakened no more, and the snow had covered over his body when you started with the cart, and him in it, unbeknown. He’s light enough to make no difference to the weight. Was it dark when you started?”
“One of them spells of fog was on; you could hardly see your hand,” grunted Tommy.
“Well, then, it’s as plain as—as the nose on your face,” said the policeman, without any sarcastic intentions. “That’s how it was.”
“Bravo, Bobby!” cried one of the crowd. “They should make you an inspector, and set you to run in them dynamiting Irish coves.”
The policeman was not displeased at this popular tribute to his shrewdness. Dignity forbade him, however, to acknowledge the compliment, and he contented himself with lifting the two handles of the stretcher which was next him. A covering was thrown over the face of the dead man, and the two policemen, with their burden, began to make their way northward to the hospital.