stairs. Rooms opened to right and left of the front door, and in
the corner of the hall, to the right, stood a big clock. It ticked
slowly and solemnly, and a little ship, above the dial, rocked
back and forth on some painted waves. I caught Mr. Daddles by the
sleeve.

"The clock is going," I whispered.

He nodded. "Eight day clock," he whispered back.

Then we continued down stairs, still walking without a sound. Just
as Mr. Daddles reached the foot of the stairs, the noise began
again. The long-drawn, sawing sound, and then the "yop, yop, yop"
so loud that it nearly made us fall over backwards in surprise.
There was no possible doubt from what place it came. It was from
the room nearest the tall clock.

Mr. Daddles instantly blew out the candle, and then we all stepped
very carefully to the threshold, and looked in. The room was a
library, with books from the floor to the ceiling. The gas was
lighted, but turned down low, and there were the smouldering
embers of a fire on the hearth. Seated in an arm chair in front of
the fire, with his feet up in another chair, was a big, fat
policeman. He was sound asleep, with his coat unbuttoned, his gray
helmet on the floor beside him, and his brass buttons and badge
glittering in the gas-light. On a couch at the other side of the
room lay another policeman, in his shirt-sleeves. He, too, was
asleep, his mouth was open, and from it came the most outrageous
snores I ever heard.