"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.

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."