To Mr. Grummit, who had read the article in question until he could have repeated it backwards, this modesty was particularly trying. The constable's yard was deserted and the front door ever closed. Once Mr. Grummit even went so far as to tap with his nails on the front parlour window, and the only response was the sudden lowering of the blind. It was not until a week afterwards that his eyes were gladdened by a sight of the constable sitting in his yard; and fearing that even then he might escape him, he ran out on tip-toe and put his face over the fence before the latter was aware of his presence.
“Wot about that 'ere burglary?” he demanded in truculent tones.
“Good evening, Grummit,” said the constable, with a patronizing air.
“Wot about that burglary?” repeated Mr. Grummit, with a scowl. “I don't believe you ever saw a burglar.”
Mr. Evans rose and stretched himself gracefully. “You'd better run indoors, my good man,” he said, slowly.
“Telling all them lies about burglars,” continued the indignant Mr. Grummit, producing his newspaper and waving it. “Why, I gave you that black eye, I smashed your 'elmet, I cut your silly 'ead open, I——”
“You've been drinking,” said the other, severely.
“You mean to say I didn't?” demanded Mr. Grummit, ferociously.
Mr. Evans came closer and eyed him steadily. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, calmly.
Mr. Grummit, about to speak, stopped appalled at such hardihood.