‘What’s the matter?’ asked the sergeant commanding the patrol.
‘Oh, it’s old mother what’s her name, shrieking for help in one of the stage boxes.’
‘Coming!’ shouted the sergeant.
‘This way, Mr. Sergeant, this way,’ cried the box-opener.
‘All right, my dear, here I am. But where are you?’
‘Don’t be afraid; there are no steps—straight on this way—he’s in the corner. Oh, the rascal, he’s as strong as a Turk!’
‘There, do you hear him? Is that to be called a Christian language?’
‘Come, come, my friend,’ said the sergeant, who had at last managed to distinguish Tom in the faint twilight. ‘We all know what it is to be young—no one likes a joke better than I do—but rules are rules, and the hour for going home has struck, so right about face, march! and quick step too.’
‘Grrrooonnn’—