The Sergeant was accordingly consulted. He too was rather sceptical.

"If there's any truth in what you say you'd better wire to this gentleman
at Monk's Langford that you say you work for, and try if we can identify
you somehow," he advised. And to the constable, "Take him to the Telegraph
Office and let him send his wire. Then bring him back here. Mind he don't
give you the slip."

So Hobbs, sighing deeply and perspiring freely, wrote his message: "Sir,
they have got me in the police-station here and say I am a suspected
person, which you know I never was, having worked for you, Sir, and your
father for forty-two years. But the Sargeant here says he wants proofs, and
you, Sir, must vouch for me as being respectable, which you know I am, and
none of us was ever thieves. So will you please do so, Sir, and oblige, as
this leaves me at present, George Hobbs."

The clerk glanced at it. "It's a long message," he said; "it'll cost four
or five shillings."

Hobbs hadn't got that--no, really he hadn't.

The constable standing on guard, rather bored, interposed, "We ain't asking
you to write a book about it."

"No, Sir, I couldn't do that," replied Hobbs anxiously. "What would you
say, Sir, if you was me?"

"Don't ask me," answered the policeman. "It's your wire, not mine. Send
something you can pay for. We only wants to find out if you're the person