indignant retort; "especially for Sims to pretend that he had stolen it
from Cooper. It's a roundabout sort of thing, but you can't tell of Mr.
Gunnill without getting into trouble yourself."

"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?"