“Yes,” said Mr. Evans, who was trying hard to think clearly. To gain time he blew a loud call on his whistle.
“The rascals!” continued the other. “I think I should know the big chap with a beard again, but the others were too quick for me.”
Mr. Evans blew his whistle again—thoughtfully. The opportunity seemed too good to lose.
“Did they get anything?” he inquired.
“Not a thing,” said the owner, triumphantly. “I was disturbed just in time.”
The constable gave a slight gulp. “I saw the three running by the side of the road,” he said, slowly. “Their behaviour seemed suspicious, so I collared the big one, but they set on me like wild cats. They had me down three times; the last time I laid my head open against the kerb, and when I came to my senses again they had gone.”
He took off his battered helmet with a flourish and, amid a murmur of sympathy, displayed a nasty cut on his head. A sergeant and a constable, both running, appeared round the corner and made towards' them.
“Get back to the station and make your report,” said the former, as Constable Evans, in a somewhat defiant voice, repeated his story. “You've done your best; I can see that.”
Mr. Evans, enacting to perfection the part of a wounded hero, limped painfully off, praying devoutly as he went that the criminals might make good their escape. If not, he reflected that the word of a policeman was at least equal to that of three burglars.
He repeated his story at the station, and, after having his head dressed, was sent home and advised to keep himself quiet for a day or two. He was off duty for four days, and, the Tunwich Gazette having devoted a column to the affair, headed “A Gallant Constable,” modestly secluded himself from the public gaze for the whole of that time.