"If you wasn't a policeman," said Mr. Grummit, yearningly, "I'd arf
murder you."

The two men eyed each other wistfully, loth to part.

"If I gave you what you deserve I should get into trouble," said the
constable.

"If I gave you a quarter of wot you ought to 'ave I should go to quod,"
sighed Mr. Grummit.

"I wouldn't put you there," said the constable, earnestly; "I swear I
wouldn't."

"Everything's beautiful and quiet," said Mr. Grummit, trembling with
eagerness, "and I wouldn't say a word to a soul. I'll take my solemn
davit I wouldn't."

"When I think o' my garden--" began the constable. With a sudden
movement he knocked off Mr. Grummit's cap, and then, seizing him by the
coat, began to hustle him along the road. In the twinkling of an eye
they had closed.

Tunwich church chimed the half-hour as they finished, and Mr. Grummit,
forgetting his own injuries, stood smiling at the wreck before him. The
constable's helmet had been smashed and trodden on; his uniform was torn
and covered with blood and dirt, and his good looks marred for a
fortnight at least. He stooped with a groan, and, recovering his helmet,
tried mechanically to punch it into shape. He stuck the battered relic
on his head, and Mr. Grummit fell back--awed, despite himself.