"Rouse up then, and come along. I want to get home."

"Please, sir, wouldn't it do in the morning?" pleaded Clare. "I've no
work now, and could easily go then. That way we should all have a
sleep."

"My eye ain't green enough," replied the policeman. "Look sharp!"

Clare said no more, but went to the baby. With sinking but courageous
heart, he wrapped her closer in her blanket, and took her in his
arms. He could not help her crying, but she did not scream. Indeed she
never really screamed; she was not strong enough to scream.

"Get along," said the policeman.

Clare led the way with his bundle, sorely incommoded by the size and
weight of the wrapping blanket, the corners of which, one after the
other, would keep working from his hold, and dropping and trailing on
the ground. Behind him came Tommy, a scarecrow monkey, with
mischievous face, and greedy beads for eyes--type not unknown to the
policeman, who brought up the rear, big enough to have all their sizes
cut out of him, and yet pass for a man. Down the stair they went, and
out at the front door, which Clare for the first time saw open, and so
by the iron gate into the street.

"Which way, please?" asked Clare, turning half round with the
question.

"To the right, straight ahead. The likes o' you, young un, might know
the way to the lock-up without astin'!"