"I can’t stay here all day,’ said the constable.
Pyecroft raised his head. Then was seen with what majesty the British sailor-man envisages a new situation.
"Met gennelman heavy sheeway," said he. "Do’ tell me British gelman can’t give ’ole Brish Navy lif’ own blighted ste’ cart. Have another drink!"
"I didn’t know they were as drunk as all that when they stopped me," I explained.
"You can say all that at Linghurst," was the answer. "Come on."
"Quite right," I said. "But the question is, if you take these two out on the road, they’ll fall down or start killing you."
"Then I’d call on you to assist me in the execution o’ my duty."
"But I’d see you further first. You’d better come with us in the car. I’ll turn this passenger out." (This was my engineer, sitting quite silent.) "You don’t want him, and, anyhow, he’d only be a witness for the defence."
"That’s true," said the constable. "But it wouldn’t make any odds—at Linghurst."
My engineer skipped into the bracken like a rabbit. I bade him cut across Sir Michael Gregory’s park, and if he caught my friend, to tell him I should probably be rather late for lunch.
"I ain’t going to be driven by him." Our destined prey pointed at Hinchcliffe with apprehension.
"Of course not. You take my seat and keep the
