He was still in good spirits when he left off work that afternoon, but some slight hesitation about returning home sent him to the Brick-layers' firms instead. He stayed there until closing time, and then, being still disinclined for home, paid a visit to Bill Smith, who lived the other side of Tunwich. By the time he started for home it was nearly midnight.
The outskirts of the town were deserted and the houses in darkness. The clock of Tunwich church struck twelve, and the last stroke was just dying away as he turned a corner and ran almost into the arms of the man he had been trying to avoid.
“Halloa!” said Constable Evans, sharply. “Here, I want a word with you.”
Mr. Grummit quailed. “With me, sir?” he said, with involuntary respect.
“What have you been doing to my flowers?” demanded the other, hotly.
“Flowers?” repeated Mr. Grummit, as though the word were new to him. “Flowers? What flowers?”
“You know well enough,” retorted the constable. “You got over my fence last night and smashed all my flowers down.”
“You be careful wot you're saying,” urged Mr. Grummit. “Why, I love flowers. You don't mean to tell me that all them beautiful flowers wot you put in so careful 'as been spoiled?”
“You know all about it,” said the constable, choking. “I shall take out a summons against you for it.”
“Ho!” said Mr. Grummit. “And wot time do you say it was when I done it?”