"I shall have to put up with that," said the constable, desperately; "it's got to be explained. It's my day-helmet, too, and the night one's as shabby as can be. Twenty years in the force and never a mark against my name till now."
"If you'd only keep quiet a bit instead of talking so much," said Mr. Drill, who had been doing some hard thinking, "I might be able to help you, p'r'aps."
"How?" inquired the constable.
"Help him if you can, Ted," said Mr. Gunnill, eagerly; "we ought all to help others when we get a chance."
Mr. Drill sat bolt upright and looked very wise.
He took the smashed helmet from the table and examined it carefully. It was broken in at least half-a-dozen places, and he laboured in vain to push it into shape. He might as well have tried to make a silk hat out of a concertina. The only thing that had escaped injury was the metal plate with the number.
"Why don't you mend it?" he inquired, at last.
"Mend it?" shouted the incensed Mr. Jenkins. "Why don't you?"
"I think I could," said Mr. Drill, slowly; "give me half an hour in the kitchen and I'll try."
"Have as long as you like," said Mr. Gunnill.