“Don’t listen to what he says, policeman,” interrupted the old lady. “He was breaking into the house, but we caught him just in time—only just in time.”
“Do you charge him?”
“Certainly. Take him in custody. Of course I charge him—the dirty blackguard!”
Another constable now presented himself, and the two carried Peace into the back parlour of the little cottage.
He presented a most pitiable appearance. Two great bumps as big as an egg were visible on his head; in addition to this his nose was bleeding, and a scar was observable on his face; this last being from the effects of the mop which had been handled so dexterously by the servant girl.
He was, moreover, wet to the skin, from the contents of the pail.
He had never been so cruelly dealt with before.
With his head between his hands, he groaned and moaned in a most piteous and abject manner.
“You’ve got the worst of it this time, old man,” said one of the policemen. “Are you sufficiently strong to walk to the station?”
“Me strong! I feel as if about to breathe my last,” cried Peace.