s to lie right along on his back. Do you
see?"

"Yes, sir," cried Jem, eagerly; and taking the ladder as the constable
sat astride the prostrate scoundrel, holding down his shoulders, and
easing himself up, the ladder was passed between the officer's legs,
and, in spite of a good deal of heaving, savage kicking, and one or two
fierce attempts to bite, right along till it was upon Mike's back,
projecting nearly two feet beyond his head and feet.

"Murder!" yelled Mike, hoarsely.

"What? Does it hurt, my lad? Never mind; you'll soon get used to it."

The constable seated himself upon the ladder, whose sides and rounds
thoroughly imprisoned the scoundrel in spite of his yells and struggles
to get free.

"Now then, Wimble, I've got him. You tie his ankles, one each side,
tightly to the ladder, and one of you bind his arms same way to the
ladder sides. Cut the rope. Mr Christmas will not mind."

The men grinned, and set to work so handily that in a few moments Mike
was securely bound.

"Now then," said the constable, "I'll have one round his middle; give me
a piece of rope; I'll soon do that."

He seized the rope, and, without rising, rapidly secured it to one side
of the ladder.

"Now," he said, "raise that end."

This was done, the rope passed under Mike, drawn up on the other side,
hauled upon till Mike yelled for mercy, and then knotted twice.

"There, my lads," said the constable, rising; "now turn him over."

The ladder was seized, turned, and there lay Mike on his back, safely
secured.

"Here, undo these," he said, sullenly. "I'll walk."

"Too late, Mike, my boy. Now then, a couple of men head and tail. Let
the ladder hang at arm's length. Best have given in quietly, and not
have made yourself a show, Mike."

"Don't I tell you I'll walk?" growled the prisoner. "And let us have
all our trouble for nothing? No, my lad, it's too late. Ready there!
Up with him. Good morning, sir. March!"

The men lent themselves eagerly to the task, for Mike was thoroughly
disliked; and a few minutes later there was a crowd gathering and
following Mike Bannock as he was borne off, spread-eagled and half
tipsy, to ponder on the theft and his chances in the cold damp place
known in Bristol as the lock-up.

Don Lavington stood in the office, waiting for his uncle to speak.

CHAPTER FIVE.

A STUBBORN DISPOSITION.

"Stop!"

Don had taken his hat, and, seeing his uncle apparently immersed in a
let