"Come inside," he said.
Mankell entered, the constable upon his shoulder. Having entered, he carefully placed the constable in a sitting posture on the stones, with his back against the wall. The policeman's helmet had tipped over his eyes--he scarcely presented an imposing picture of the majesty and might of the law. The warder shook him by the shoulder. "Here, come--wake up. You're a pretty sort," he said. The constable's reply, although slightly inarticulate, was yet sufficiently distinct.
"Not another drop!" he murmured.
"No, I shouldn't think so," said the warder. "You've had a pailful, it seems to me, already."
The man seemed a little puzzled. He turned and looked at Mankell.
"What do you want here?"
"Three months' hard labour."
The man looked down and saw that the new-comer had gyves upon his wrists. He went to a door at one side, and summoned another warder. The two returned together. This second official took in the situation at a glance.
"Have you come from----?" naming the town from which they in fact had come. Mankell inclined his head. This second official turned his attention to the prostrate constable. "Look in his pockets."
The janitor acted on the suggestion. The order for committal was produced.