Gunnill, gazing sadly at the slight figure of Mr. Sims, could not help
wishing that Mr. Drill possessed a little of his spirit.

[Illustration: "Mr. Sims watched her tenderly as she drew the beer."]

She had just finished her task when a tremendous bumping noise was heard
in the living-room, and the plates on the dresser were nearly shaken off
their shelves.

"What's that?" she cried.

They ran to the room and stood aghast in the doorway at the spectacle of
Mr. Gunnill, with his clenched fists held tightly by his side, bounding
into the air with all the grace of a trained acrobat, while Mr. Drill
encouraged him from an easy-chair. Mr. Gunnill smiled broadly as he met
their astonished gaze, and with a final bound kicked something along the
floor and subsided into his seat panting.

Mr. Sims, suddenly enlightened, uttered a cry of dismay and, darting
under the table, picked up what had once been a policeman's helmet. Then
he snatched a partially consumed truncheon from the fire, and stood white
and trembling before the astonished Mr. Gunnill.

"What's the matter?" inquired the latter. "You--you've spoilt 'em,"
gasped Mr. Sims. "What of it?" said Mr. Gunnill, staring.

"I was--going to take 'em away," stammered Mr. Sims.

"Well, they'll be easier to carry now," said Mr. Drill, simply.