“What’s it got to do with you?” asked Bobbie, yawning.
“It’s got all to do with me, as it happens. I’m the constable in charge of this district.”
“Ho, yes!” said the boy incredulously. “Where’s your ’elmet?”
“Ah!” remarked the constable, with tolerance. “You’re town bred, I can see. What you got in your tail pocket?”
“Cornet.”
“Whose?”
“Mine,” said the boy defiantly. “Who’s did you think?”
“One minute,” said the constable sharply. “Haven’t done with you yet, my lad. If that’s your cornet, and you’ve come by it honest, you can no doubt play a tune on it.”
“Why should I play a tune to an amateur, ’alf-baked copper like you?”
“I’ve got you,” said the constable gleefully. “I’ve got you, my lad, on a piece of string. Wandering about with no vis’ble means of subsistence; also in possession of property that he is unable to account for. I’ll borrow a dog-cart, and take you off to Tonbridge.”