"After them," said Mr. Dashwood, "and let's see what they'll do with him."
He led the way down the hill. When they reached the road, the others were a couple of hundred yards ahead. The wind blowing from them brought the songs and shouting of the convivial one, on whom, now, the extra stimulus of the cold night air was acting.
"I've seen a good many drunken men," said French, "but, begad! this fellow takes the cake. Look, he's trying to fight now! Now they've got him between them again. Come on and let's see what Moriarty is going to do with him."
They followed up hill to the village street. Here in the moonlight, before the highly respectable cottage bearing the tin sign inscribed "County Police," the trio stopped, Moriarty clinging to his charge while Andy rang the bell.
Mr. Boiler, the Crowsnest constable, had not yet started on his night rounds. He was drinking a cup of coffee in the bedroom upstairs when the summons came. Opening the window, he put his head out.
"Who's there?" asked the constable.
"Dhrunken man," said Moriarty from the road. "I've got him here. He called at The Martens, dead dhrunk, and 'saulted me. Look at me face. Come down wid you and gaol him, or he'll tear the village to pieces, bad luck to him!"
"One minute," said Mr. Boiler, "and I'll attend to his business for him."
Next moment he was in the street, where Moriarty, with a deft touch on the adductor tendons, had deposited Mr. Piper on his back.
"Now then, now then! What's all this?" asked the constable, approaching the disciple of La Savate.