"Send him round to the police-station," shouted Mr. Rogers. "For God's sake hurry, this is not a funeral," he almost shrieked to the driver.
"No, an' I ain't no bloomin' nigger neither," growled the man.
Neighbours were at their gates, scenting trouble in the way that neighbours will. All sorts of rumours were afloat, the prevalent idea being that Mr. Rogers was a bankrupt, and that his furniture had been taken by the representatives of his creditors.
At the police-station Mr. Rogers once more bounced from the omnibus, the little Rogerses climbing out after him. This time the nursemaid joined the crowd in the charge-room.
"I have been robbed," almost sobbed Mr. Rogers; then with unconscious irony added, "Everything has gone, except my wife and children."
The sergeant was conventionally sympathetic, but officially reticent. A man should be sent to No. 131 Branksome Road, to institute enquiries.
"What the devil is the use of that?" shouted Mr. Rogers. "I want my furniture, and it's not in my house. What are the police for?"
"I want my horse!" Eustace set up another howl. He, together with his six brothers and sisters and the nursemaid, were now ranged
