C 49’s first thought was that a chimney had fallen, and his one idea was to catch it in the act. He made a desperate grab even before pushing his helmet up, and caught Mr. Pinner by the arm.
“Leggo,” said that gentleman, struggling.
“Ho,” said C 49, crimson with wrath, as he pushed his helmet up. “Now you come along o’ me, my lad.”
Mr. Pinner, regretting the natural impulse which had led to his undoing, wrenched himself free and staggered against the fence which surrounded the waste ground. Then he ducked sideways, and as C 49 renewed his invitation coupled with a warning concerning the futility of resistance, struck him full and square on the temple.
The constable went down as though he had been shot. His helmet rolled off as he fell, and his head struck the pavement. Mr. Pinner, his taste for bonneting policemen all gone, passed the admiring small boy at the double, and then, turning the corner rapidly, slackened his pace to something less conspicuous.
He reached his home, a small house in a narrow turning off Cable Street, safely, and, throwing himself into a chair, breathed heavily, while his wife, whose curiosity at seeing him home at that early hour would not be denied, plied him with questions.
“Spend a ’alf-hour with me?” she repeated, in a dazed voice. “Ain’t you well, Charlie?”
“Well?” said the fireman, frowning, “o’ course I’m well. But it struck me you ought to see a little of me sometimes when I’m ashore.”
“That’s generally what I do see,” said Mrs. Pinner; “it’s been a long time striking you, Charlie.”
“Better late than never,” murmured her husband, absently, as he listened in shuddering suspense to every footfall outside.