Chapter II: Part 2

It took the three of 'em to get the dog into the cab, and as soon as it was in the cabman told 'em to take it out agin. They argufied with 'im till their tongues ached, and at last, arter paying 'im four shillings and sixpence afore they started, he climbed up on the box and drove off.

The door was open when they got to their lodgings, but they 'ad to be careful because o' the landlady. It took the three of 'em to pull and push that dog upstairs, and Ginger took a dislike to dogs that 'e never really got over. They got 'im in the bedroom at last, and, arter they 'ad given 'im a drink o' water out o' the wash-hand basin, Ginger and Peter started to find fault with Sam Small.

“I know wot I'm about,” ses Sam; “but, o' course, if you don't want your share, say so. Wot?”

“Talk sense!” ses Ginger. “We paid our share o' the cab, didn't we? And more fools us.”

“There won't be no share,” ses Peter Russet; “but if there is, we're going to 'ave it.”

They undressed themselves and got into bed, and Ginger 'adn't been in his five minutes afore the dog started to get in with 'im. When Ginger pushed 'im off 'e seemed to think he was having a game with 'im, and, arter pretending to bite 'im in play, he took the end of the counterpane in 'is mouth and tried to drag it off.

“Why don't you get to sleep, Ginger?” ses Sam, who was just dropping off. “'Ave a game with 'im in the morning.”

Ginger gave the dog a punch in the chest, and, arter saying a few o' the things he'd like to do to Sam Small, he cuddled down in 'is bed and they all went off to sleep. All but the dog, that is. He seemed uneasy in 'is mind, and if 'e woke 'em up once by standing on his 'ind-legs and putting his fore-paws on their chest to see if they was still alive, he did arf-a-dozen times.

He dropped off to sleep at last, scratching 'imself, but about three o'clock in the morning Ginger woke up with a 'orrible start and sat up in bed shivering. Sam and Peter woke up, too, and, raising themselves in bed, looked at the dog, wot was sitting on its tail, with its 'ead back, moaning fit to break its 'art.

“Wot's the matter?” ses old Sam, in a shaky voice. “Stop it! Stop it, d'ye hear!”

“P'r'aps it's dying,” ses Ginger, as the dog let off a 'owl like a steamer coming up the river. “Stop it, you brute!”

“He'll wake the 'ouse up in a minute,” ses Peter. “Take 'im downstairs and kick 'im into the street, Sam.”

“Take 'im yourself,” ses Sam. “_Hsh_! Somebody's coming upstairs. Poor old doggie. Come along, then. Come along.”

The dog left off his 'owling, and went over and licked 'im just as the landlady and one or two more came to the door and called out to know wot they meant by it.

“It's all right, missis,” ses Sam. “It's on'y pore Ginger. You keep quiet,” he ses in a whisper, turning to Ginger.

“Wot's he making that row about?” ses the landlady. “He made my blood run cold.”

“He's got a touch o' toothache,” ses Sam. “Never mind, Ginger,” 'e ses in a hurry, as the dog let off another 'owl; “try and bear it.”

“He's a coward, that's wot 'e is,” ses the landlady, very fierce. “Why, a child o' five wouldn't make such a fuss.”

“Sounds more like a dog than a 'uman being,” ses another voice. “You come outside, Ginger, and I'll give you something to cry for.”

They waited a minute or two, and then, everything being quiet, they went back to bed, while old Sam talked to Ginger about wot 'e called 'is “presence o' mind,” and Ginger talked to 'im about wot he'd do to 'im if 'e wasn't a fat old man with one foot in the grave.

They was all in a better temper when they woke up in the morning, and while Sam was washing they talked about wot they was to do with the dog.

“We can't lead 'im about all day,” ses Ginger; “and if we let 'im off the string he'll go off 'ome.”

“He don't know where his 'ome is,” ses Sam, very severe; “but he might run away, and then the pore thing might be starved or else ill-treated. I 'ave 'eard o' boys tying tin cans to their tails.”

“I've done it myself,” ses Ginger, nodding. “Consequently it's our dooty to look arter 'im,” ses Sam.

“I'll go down to the front door,” ses Peter, “and when I whistle, bring him down.”

Ginger stuck his 'ead out o' the window, and by and by, when Peter whistled, him and Sam took the dog downstairs and out into the street.

“So far so good,” ses Sam; “now, wot about brekfuss?”

They 'ad their brekfuss in their usual coffeeshop, and the dog took bits from all of them. Unfortunately, 'e wasn't used to haddick bones, and arter two of the customers 'ad gorn out and two more 'ad complained to the landlord, they 'ad to leave their brekfusses and take 'im outside for a breath o' fresh air.

“Now, wot are we going to do?” ses Ginger. “I'm beginning to be sick of the sight of 'im. 'Ave we got to lead 'im about all day on a bit o' string?”

“Let's take 'im round the corner and lose 'im,” ses Peter Russet.

“You give me 'old o' that string,” ses Sam. “If you don't want shares, that's all right. If I'm going to look arter 'im I'll 'ave it all.”

That made Ginger and Peter look at each other. Direckly Sam began to talk about money they began to think they might be losing something.

“And wot about 'aving 'im in our bedroom and keeping us awake all night?” ses Peter.

“And putting it on to me with the toothache,” ses Ginger. “No; you can look arter 'im, Sam, while me and Peter goes off and enjoys ourselves; and if you get anything we go shares, mind.”

“All right,” ses Sam, turning away with the dog.

“And suppose Sam gets a reward or sells it, and then tells us that it ran away and 'e lost it?” ses Peter.

“O' course; I never thought o' that,” ses Ginger. “You've got your 'ead on straight, Peter.”

“I see 'im smile, that's why,” ses Peter Russet.

“You're a liar,” ses Sam.

“We'll stick together,” ses Ginger. “Leastways, one of us'll keep with you, Sam.”

They settled it that way at last, and while Ginger went for a walk down round about where they 'ad found the dog, Sam Small and Peter waited for him in a little public-'ouse down Limehouse way. Their idea was that there would be bills up, and when Ginger came back and said there wasn't, they 'ad a lot to say about people wot wasn't fit to 'ave dogs because they didn't love 'em.

They 'ad a miserable day. When the dog got sick o' sitting in a pub 'e made such a noise they 'ad to take 'im out; and when 'e got tired o' walking about he sat down on the pavement and they 'ad to drag 'im along to the nearest pub agin. At five o'clock in the arternoon Ginger Dick was talking about two-penn'orth o' rat-poison.

“Wot are we to do with 'im till twelve o'clock to-night?” ses Peter.

“And s'pose we can't smuggle 'im into the 'ouse agin?” ses Ginger. “Or suppose he makes that noise agin in the night?”

They 'ad a pint each to 'elp them to think wot was to be done. And, arter a lot o' talking and quarrelling, they did wot a lot of other people 'ave done when they got into trouble: they came to me.

I 'ad on'y been on dooty about arf an hour when the three of 'em turned up at the wharf with the dog, and, arter saying 'ow well I looked and that I seemed to get younger every time they saw me, they asked me to take charge of the dog for 'em.

“It'll be company for you,” ses old Sam. “It must be very lonely 'ere of a night. I've often thought of it.”

“And of a day-time you could take it 'ome and tie it up in your back-yard,” ses Ginger.

I wouldn't 'ave anything to do with it at fust, but at last I gave way. They offered me fourpence a day for its keep, and, as I didn't want to run any risk, I made 'em give me a couple o' bob to go on with.

They went off as though they'd left a load o' care be'ind 'em, and arter tying the dog up to a crane I went on with my work. They 'adn't told me wot the game was, but, from one or two things they'd let drop, I'd got a pretty good idea.

The dog 'owled a bit at fust, but he quieted down arter a bit. He was a nice-looking animal, but one dog is much the same as another to me, and if I 'ad one ten years I don't suppose I could pick it out from two or three others.

I took it off 'ome with me when I left at six o'clock next morning, and tied it up in my yard. My missis 'ad words about it, o' course—that's wot people get married for—but when she found it woke me up three times she quieted down and said wot a nice coat it 'ad got.

The three of 'em came round next evening to see it, and they was so afraid of its being lost that when they stood me a pint at the Bull's Head we 'ad to take it with us. Ginger was going to buy a sausage-roll for it, but, arter Sam 'ad pointed out that they was paying me fourpence a day for its keep, he didn't. And Sam 'ad the cheek to tell me that it liked a nice bit o' fried steak as well as anything.

A lot o' people admired that dog. I remember, on the fourth night I think it was, the barge _Dauntless_ came alongside, and arter she was made fast the skipper came ashore and took a little notice of it.

“Where did you get 'im?” he ses.

I told 'im 'ow it was, and he stood there for some time patting the dog on the 'ead and whistling under 'is breath.

“It's much the same size as my dog,” he ses; “that's a black retriever, too.”

I ses “Oh!”

“I'm afraid I shall 'ave to get rid of it,” he ses. “It's on the barge now. My missis won't 'ave it in the 'ouse any more cos it bit the baby. And o' course it was no good p'inting out to 'er that it was its first bite. Even the law allows one bite, but it's no good talking about the law to wimmen.”

“Except when it's on their side,” I ses.

He patted the dog's 'ead agin and whistled, and a big black dog came up out of the cabin and sprang ashore. It went up and put its nose to Sam's dog, and they both growled like thunderstorms.

“Might be brothers,” ses the skipper, “on'y your dog's got a better 'ead and a better coat. It's a good dog.”

“They're all alike to me,” I ses. “I couldn't tell 'em apart, not if you paid me.”

The skipper stood there a moment, and then he ses: “I wish you'd let me see 'ow my dog looks in your dog's collar,” he ses.

“Whaffor?” I ses.

“On'y fancy,” he ses. “Oh, Bill!”

“Yes,” I ses.

“It ain't Christmas,” he ses, taking my arm and walking up and down a bit, “but it will be soon, and then I mightn't see you. You've done me one or two good turns, and I should like to make you a Christmas-box of three 'arf-dollars.”

I let 'im give 'em to me, and then, just to please 'im, I let 'im try the collar on 'is dog, while I swept up a bit.

“It looked beautiful on 'im,” he ses, when I'd finished; “but I've put it back agin. Come on, Bruno. Good-night, Bill.”

He got 'is dog on the barge agin arter a bit o' trouble, and arter making sure that my dog 'ad got its own collar on I went on with my work.

The dog didn't seem to be quite 'imself next day, and he was so fierce in the yard that my missis was afraid to go near 'im. I was going to ask the skipper about it, as 'e seemed to know more about dogs than I did, but when I got to the wharf the barge had sailed.

It was just getting dark when there came a ring at the gate-bell, and afore I could answer it arf-a-dozen more, as fast as the bell could go. And when I opened the wicket Sam Small and Ginger and Peter Russet all tried to get in at once.

“Where's the dog?” ses Sam.

“Tied up,” I ses. “Wot's the matter? 'Ave you all gorn mad?”

They didn't answer me. They ran on to the jetty, and afore I could turn round a'most they 'ad got the dog loose and was dragging it towards me, smiling all over their faces.

“Reward,” ses Ginger, as I caught 'old of 'im by the coat. “Five pounds—landlord of a pub—at Bow—come on, Sam!”

“Why don't you keep your mouth shut, Ginger?” ses Sam.

“Five pounds!” I ses. “Five pounds! Hurrah!”

“Wot are you hurraying about?” ses Sam, very short.

“Why,” I ses, “I s'pose——Here, arf a moment!”

“Can't stop,” ses Sam, going arter the others.

I watched 'em up the road, and then I locked the gate and walked up and down the wharf thinking wot a funny thing money is, and 'ow it alters people's natures. And arter all, I thought that three arf-dollars earned honest was better than a reward for hiding another man's dog.

I finished tidying up, and at nine o'clock I went into the office for a quiet smoke. I couldn't 'elp wondering 'ow them three 'ad got on, and just as I was thinking about it there came the worst ringing at the gate-bell I 'ave ever 'eard in my life, and the noise of heavy boots kicking the gate. It was so violent I 'ardly liked to go at fust, thinking it might be bad news, but I opened it at last, and in bust Sam Small, with Ginger and Peter.

For five minutes they all talked at once, with their nasty fists 'eld under my nose. I couldn't make 'ead or tail of it at fust, and then I found as 'ow they 'ad got the dog back with them, and that the landlord 'ad said 'e wasn't the one.

“But 'e said as he thought the collar was his,” ses Sam. “'Ow do you account for that?”

“P'r'aps he made a mistake,” I ses; “or p'r'aps he thought you'd turn the dog adrift and he'd get it back for nothing. You know wot landlords are. Try 'im agin.”

“You take 'im back to-morrow night,” I ses. “It's a nice walk to Bow. And then come back and beg my pardon. I want to 'ave a word with this policeman here. Goodnight.”

THE WEAKER VESSEL

Mr. Gribble sat in his small front parlour in a state of angry amazement. It was half-past six and there was no Mrs. Gribble; worse still, there was no tea. It was a state of things that had only happened once before. That was three weeks after marriage, and on that occasion Mr. Gribble had put his foot down with a bang that had echoed down the corridors of thirty years.

The fire in the little kitchen was out, and the untidy remains of Mrs. Gribble's midday meal still disgraced the table. More and more dazed, the indignant husband could only come to the conclusion that she had gone out and been run over. Other things might possibly account for her behaviour; that was the only one that would excuse it.

His meditations were interrupted by the sound of a key in the front door, and a second later a small, anxious figure entered the room and, leaning against the table, strove to get its breath. The process was not helped by the alarming distension of Mr. Gribble's figure.

“I—I got home—quick as I could—Henry,” said Mrs. Gribble, panting.

“Where is my tea?” demanded her husband. “What do you mean by it? The fire's out and the kitchen is just as you left it.”

“I—I've been to a lawyer's, Henry,” said Mrs. Gribble, “and I had to wait.”

“Lawyer's?” repeated her husband.

“I got a letter this afternoon telling me to call. Poor Uncle George, that went to America, is gone.”

“That is no excuse for neglecting me,” said Mr. Gribble. “Of course people die when they are old. Is that the one that got on and made money?”

His wife, apparently struggling to repress a little excitement, nodded. “He—he's left me two hundred pounds a year for life, Henry,” she said, dabbing at her pale blue eyes with a handkerchief. “They're going to pay it monthly; sixteen pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence a month. That's how he left it.”

“Two hund—” began Mr. Gribble, forgetting himself. “_Two hun_——Go and get my tea! If you think you're going to give yourself airs because your uncle's left you money, you won't do it in my house.”

He took a chair by the window, and, while his wife busied herself in the kitchen, sat gazing in blank delight at the little street. Two hundred a year! It was all he could do to resume his wonted expression as his wife re-entered the room and began to lay the table. His manner, however, when she let a cup and saucer slip from her trembling fingers to smash on the floor left nothing to be desired.

“It's nice to have money come to us in our old age,” said Mrs. Gribble, timidly, as they sat at tea. “It takes a load off my mind.”

“Old age!” said her husband, disagreeably. “What d'ye mean by old age? I'm fifty-two, and feel as young as ever I did.”

“You look as young as ever you did,” said the docile Mrs. Gribble. “I can't see no change in you. At least, not to speak of.”

“Not so much talk,” said her husband. “When I want your opinion of my looks I'll ask you for it. When do you start getting this money?”

“Tuesday week; first of May,” replied his wife. “The lawyers are going to send it by registered letter.”

Mr. Gribble grunted.

“I shall be sorry to leave the house for some things,” said his wife, looking round. “We've been here a good many years now, Henry.”

“Leave the house!” repeated Mr. Gribble, putting down his tea-cup and staring at her.

“Leave the house! What are you talking about?”

“But we can't stay here, Henry,” faltered Mrs. Gribble. “Not with all that money. They are building some beautiful houses in Charlton Grove now—bathroom, tiled hearths, and beautiful stained glass in the front door; and all for twenty-eight pounds a year.”

“Wonderful!” said the other, with a mocking glint in his eye.

“And iron palings to the front garden, painted chocolate-colour picked out with blue,” continued his wife, eyeing him wistfully.

Mr. Gribble struck the table a blow with his fist. “This house is good enough for me,” he roared; “and what's good enough for me is good enough for you. You want to waste money on show; that's what you want. Stained glass and bow-windows! You want a bow-window to loll about in, do you? Shouldn't wonder if you don't want a servant-gal to do the work.”

Mrs. Gribble flushed guiltily, and caught her breath.

“We're going to live as we've always lived,” pursued Mr. Gribble. “Money ain't going to spoil me. I ain't going to put on no side just because I've come in for a little bit. If you had your way we should end up in the workhouse.”

He filled his pipe and smoked thoughtfully, while Mrs. Gribble cleared away the tea-things and washed up. Pictures, good to look upon, formed in the smoke—pictures of a hale, hearty man walking along the primrose path arm-in-arm with two hundred a year; of the mahogany and plush of the saloon bar at the Grafton Arms; of Sunday jaunts, and the Oval on summer afternoons.

He ate his breakfast slowly on the first of the month, and, the meal finished, took a seat in the window with his pipe and waited for the postman. Mrs. Gribble's timid reminders concerning the flight of time and consequent fines for lateness at work fell on deaf ears. He jumped up suddenly and met the postman at the door.

“Has it come?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, extending her hand.

By way of reply her husband tore open the envelope and, handing her the covering letter, counted the notes and coin and placed them slowly in his pockets. Then, as Mrs. Gribble looked at him, he looked at the clock, and, snatching up his hat, set off down the road.

He was late home that evening, and his manner forbade conversation. Mrs. Gribble, with the bereaved air of one who has sustained an irremediable loss, sighed fitfully, and once applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

“That's no good,” said her husband at last; “that won't bring him back.”

“Bring who back?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in genuine surprise.

“Why, your Uncle George,” said Mr. Gribble. “That's what you're turning on the water-cart for, ain't it?”

“I wasn't thinking of him,” said Mrs. Gribble, trying to speak bravely. “I was thinking of——”

“Well, you ought to be,” interrupted her husband. “He wasn't my uncle, poor chap, but I've been thinking of him, off and on, all day. That bloater-paste you are eating now came from his kindness. I brought it home as a treat.”

“I was thinking of my clothes,” said Mrs. Gribble, clenching her hands together under the table. “When I found I had come in for that money, the first thing I thought was that I should be able to have a decent dress. My old ones are quite worn out, and as for my hat and jacket—”

“Go on,” said her husband, fiercely. “Go on. That's just what I said: trust you with money, and we should be poorer than ever.”

“I'm ashamed to be seen out,” said Mrs. Gribble.

“A woman's place is the home,” said Mr. Gribble; “and so long as I'm satisfied with your appearance nobody else matters. So long as I am pleased, that's everything. What do you want to go dressing yourself up for? Nothing looks worse than an over-dressed woman.”

“What are we going to do with all that money, then?” inquired Mrs. Gribble, in trembling tones.

“That'll do,” said Mr. Gribble, decidedly. “That'll do. One o' these days you'll go too far. You start throwing that money in my teeth and see what happens. I've done my best for you all these years, and there's no reason to suppose I sha'n't go on doing so. What did you say? What!”

Mrs. Gribble turned to him a face rendered ghastly by terror. “I—I said—it was my money,” she stammered.

Mr. Gribble rose, and stood for a full minute regarding her. Then, kicking a chair out of his way, he took his hat from its peg in the passage and, with a bang of the street-door that sent a current of fresh, sweet air circulating through the house, strode off to the Grafton Arms.

It was past eleven when he returned, but even the spectacle of his wife laboriously darning her old dress failed to reduce his good-humour in the slightest degree. In a frivolous mood he even took a feather from the dismembered hat on the table and stuck it in his hair. He took the stump of a strong cigar from his lips and, exhaling a final cloud of smoke, tossed it into the fireplace.

“Uncle George dead,” he said, at last, shaking his head. “Hadn't pleasure acquaintance, but good man. Good man.”

He shook his head again and gazed mistily at his wife.

“He was a teetotaller,” she remarked, casually.

“He was tee-toller,” repeated Mr. Gribble, regarding her equably. “Good man. Uncle George dead—tee-toller.”

Mrs. Gribble gathered up her work and began to put it away.

“Bed-time,” said Mr. Gribble, and led the way upstairs, singing.

His good-humour had evaporated by the morning, and, having made a light breakfast of five cups of tea, he went off, with lagging steps, to work. It was a beautiful spring morning, and the idea of a man with two hundred a year and a headache going off to a warehouse instead of a day's outing seemed to border upon the absurd. What use was money without freedom? His toil was sweetened that day by the knowledge that he could drop it any time he liked and walk out, a free man, into the sunlight.

By the end of a week his mind was made up. Each day that passed made his hurried uprising and scrambled breakfast more and more irksome; and on Monday morning, with hands in trouser-pockets and legs stretched out, he leaned back in his chair and received his wife's alarming intimations as to the flight of time with a superior and sphinx-like smile.

“It's too fine to go to work to-day,” he said, lazily. “Come to that, any day is too fine to waste at work.”

Mrs. Gribble sat gasping at him.

“So on Saturday I gave 'em a week's notice,” continued her husband, “and after Potts and Co. had listened while I told 'em what I thought of 'em, they said they'd do without the week's notice.”

“You've never given up your job?” said Mrs. Gribble.

“I spoke to old Potts as one gentleman of independent means to another,” said Mr. Gribble, smiling. “Thirty-five bob a week after twenty years' service! And he had the cheek to tell me I wasn't worth that. When I told him what he was worth he talked about sending for the police. What are you looking like that for? I've worked hard for you for thirty years, and I've had enough of it. Now it's your turn.”

“You'd find it hard to get another place at your age,” said his wife; “especially if they wouldn't give you a good character.”

“Place!” said the other, staring. “Place! I tell you I've done with work. For a man o' my means to go on working for thirty-five bob a week is ridiculous.”

“But suppose anything happened to me,” said his wife, in a troubled voice.

“That's not very likely,” said Mr. Gribble.

“You're tough enough. And if it did your money would come to me.”

Mrs. Gribble shook her head.

“WHAT?” roared her husband, jumping up.

“I've only got it for life, Henry, as I told you,” said Mrs. Gribble, in alarm. “I thought you knew it would stop when I died.”

“And what's to become of me if anything happens to you, then?” demanded the dismayed Mr. Gribble. “What am I to do?”

Mrs. Gribble put her handkerchief to her eyes.

“And don't start weakening your constitution by crying,” shouted the incensed husband.

“What are you mumbling?”

“I sa—sa—said, let's hope—you'll go first,” sobbed his wife. “Then it will be all right.”

Mr. Gribble opened his mouth, and then, realizing the inadequacy of the English language for moments of stress, closed it again. He broke his silence at last in favour of Uncle George.

“Mind you,” he said, concluding a peroration which his wife listened to with her fingers in her ears—“mind you, I reckon I've been absolutely done by you and your precious Uncle George. I've given up a good situation, and now, any time you fancy to go off the hooks, I'm to be turned into the street.”

“I'll try and live, for your sake, Henry,” said his wife.

“Think of my worry every time you are ill,” pursued the indignant Mr. Gribble.

Mrs. Gribble sighed, and her husband, after a few further remarks concerning Uncle George, his past and his future, announced his intention of going to the lawyers and seeing whether anything could be done. He came back in a state of voiceless gloom, and spent the rest of a beautiful day indoors, smoking a pipe which had lost much of its flavour, and regarding with a critical and anxious eye the small, weedy figure of his wife as she went about her work.

The second month's payment went into his pocket as a matter of course, but on this occasion Mrs. Gribble made no requests for new clothes or change of residence. A little nervous cough was her sole comment.

“Got a cold?” inquired her husband, starting.

“I don't think so,” replied his wife, and, surprised and touched at this unusual display of interest, coughed again.

“Is it your throat or your chest?” he inquired, gruffly.

Mrs. Gribble coughed again to see. After five coughs she said she thought it was her chest.

“You'd better not go out o' doors to-day, then,” said Mr. Gribble. “Don't stand about in draughts; and I'll fetch you in a bottle of cough mixture when I go out. What about a lay-down on the sofa?”

His wife thanked him, and, reaching the sofa, watched with half-closed eyes as he cleared the breakfast-table. It was the first time he had done such a thing in his life, and a little honest pride in the possession of such a cough would not be denied. Dim possibilities of its vast usefulness suddenly occurred to her.

She took the cough mixture for a week, by which time other symptoms, extremely disquieting to an ease-loving man, had manifested themselves. Going upstairs deprived her of breath; carrying a loaded tea-tray produced a long and alarming stitch in the side. The last time she ever filled the coal-scuttle she was discovered sitting beside it on the floor in a state of collapse.

“You'd better go and see the doctor,” said Mr. Gribble.

Mrs. Gribble went. Years before the doctor had told her that she ought to take life easier, and she was now able to tell him she was prepared to take his advice.

“And, you see, I must take care of myself now for the sake of my husband,” she said, after she had explained matters.

“I understand,” said the doctor.

“If anything happened to me—” began the patient.

“Nothing shall happen,” said the other. “Stay in bed to-morrow morning, and I'll come round and overhaul you.”

Mrs. Gribble hesitated. “You might examine me and think I was all right,” she objected; “and at the same time you wouldn't know how I feel.”

“I know just how you feel,” was the reply. “Good-bye.”

He came round the following morning and, following the dejected Mr. Gribble upstairs, made a long and thorough investigation of his patient.

“Say 'ninety-nine,'” he said, adjusting his stethoscope.

Mrs. Gribble ticked off “ninety-nines” until her husband's ears ached with them. The doctor finished at last, and, fastening his bag, stood with his beard in his hand, pondering. He looked from the little, white-faced woman on the bed to the bulky figure of Mr. Gribble.

“You had better lie up for a week,” he said, decidedly. “The rest will do you good.”

“Nothing serious, I s'pose?” said Mr. Gribble, as he led the way downstairs to the small parlour.

“She ought to be all right with care,” was the reply.

“Care?” repeated the other, distastefully. “What's the matter with her?”

“She's not very strong,” said the doctor; “and hearts don't improve with age, you know. Under favourable conditions she's good for some years yet. The great thing is never to thwart her. Let her have her own way in everything.”

“Own way in everything?” repeated the dumbfounded Mr. Gribble.

The doctor nodded. “Never let her worry about anything,” he continued; “and, above all, never find fault with her.”

“Not,” said Mr. Gribble, thickly—“not even for her own good?”

“Unless you want to run the risk of losing her.”

Mr. Gribble shivered.

“Let her have an easy time,” said the doctor, taking up his hat. “Pamper her a bit if you like; it won't hurt her. Above all, don't let that heart of hers get excited.”

He shook hands with the petrified Mr. Gribble and went off, grinning wickedly. He had few favourites, and Mr. Gribble was not one of them.

For two days the devoted husband did the housework and waited on the invalid. Then he wearied, and, at his wife's suggestion, a small girl was engaged as servant. She did most of the nursing as well, and, having a great love for the sensational, took a grave view of her mistress's condition.

It was a relief to Mr. Gribble when his wife came downstairs again, and he was cheered to see that she looked much better. His satisfaction was so marked that it brought on her cough again.

“It's this house, I think,” she said, with a resigned smile. “It never did agree with me.

“Well, you've lived in it a good many years,” said her husband, controlling himself with difficulty.

“It's rather dark and small,” said Mrs. Gribble. “Not but what it is good enough for me. And I dare say it will last my time.”

“Nonsense!” said her husband, gruffly. “You want to get out a bit more. You've got nothing to do now we are wasting all this money on a servant. Why don't you go out for little walks?”

Mrs. Gribble went, after several promptings, and the fruit of one of them was handed by the postman to Mr. Gribble a few days afterwards. Half-choking with wrath and astonishment, he stood over his trembling wife with the first draper's bill he had ever received.

“One pound two shillings and threepence three-farthings!” he recited. “It must be a mistake. It must be for somebody else.”

Mrs. Gribble, with her hand to her heart, tottered to the sofa and lay there with her eyes closed.

“I had to get some dress material,” she said, in a quavering voice. “You want me to go out, and I'm so shabby I'm ashamed to be seen.”

Mr. Gribble made muffled noises in his throat; then, afraid to trust himself, he went into the back-yard and, taking a seat on an upturned bucket, sat with his head in his hands peering into the future.

The dressmaker's bill and a bill for a new hat came after the next monthly payment; and a bill for shoes came a week later. Hoping much from the well-known curative effects of fine feathers, he managed to treat the affair with dignified silence. The only time he allowed full play to his feelings Mrs. Gribble took to her bed for two days, and the doctor had a heart-to-heart talk with him on the doorstep.

It was a matter of great annoyance to him that his wife still continued to attribute her ill-health to the smallness and darkness of the house; and the fact that there were only two of the houses in Charlton Grove left caused a marked depression of spirits. It was clear that she was fretting. The small servant went further, and said that she was fading away.

They moved at the September quarter, and a slight, but temporary, improvement in Mrs. Gribble's health took place. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled over new curtains and new linoleum. The tiled hearths, and stained glass in the front door filled her with a deep and solemn thankfulness. The only thing that disturbed her was the fact that Mr. Gribble, to avoid wasting money over necessaries, contrived to spend an unduly large portion on personal luxuries.

“We ought to have some new things for the kitchen,” she said one day.

“No money,” said Mr. Gribble, laconically.

“And a mat for the bathroom.”

Mr. Gribble got up and went out.

She had to go to him for everything. Two hundred a year and not a penny she could call her own! She consulted her heart, and that faithful organ responded with a bound that set her nerves quivering. If she could only screw her courage to the sticking-point the question would be settled for once and all.

White and trembling she sat at breakfast on the first of November, waiting for the postman, while the unconscious Mr. Gribble went on with his meal. The double-knocks down the road came nearer and nearer, and Mr. Gribble, wiping his mouth, sat upright with an air of alert and pleased interest. Rapid steps came to the front door, and a double bang followed.

“Always punctual,” said Mr. Gribble, good-humouredly.

His wife made no reply, but, taking a blue-crossed envelope from the maid in her shaking fingers, looked round for a knife. Her gaze encountered Mr. Gribble's outstretched hand.

“After you,” he said sharply.

Mrs. Gribble found the knife, and, hacking tremulously at the envelope, peeped inside it and, with her gaze fastened on the window, fumbled for her pocket. She was so pale and shook so much that the words died away on her husband's lips.

“It is—all right,” gasped his wife.

She put her hand to her throat and, hardly able to believe in her victory, sat struggling for breath. Before her, grim and upright, her husband sat, a figure of helpless smouldering wrath.

“You might lose it,” he said, at last. “I sha'n't lose it,” said his wife.

To avoid further argument, she arose and went slowly upstairs. Through the doorway Mr. Gribble saw her helping herself up by the banisters, her left hand still at her throat. Then he heard her moving slowly about in the bedroom overhead.

He took out his pipe and filled it mechanically, and was just holding a match to the tobacco when he paused and gazed with a puzzled air at the ceiling. “Blamed if it don't sound like somebody dancing!” he growled.

STEPPING BACKWARDS

Wonderful improvement,” said Mr. Jack Mills. “Show 'em to me again.”

Mr. Simpson took his pipe from his mouth and, parting his lips, revealed his new teeth.

“And you talk better,” said Mr. Mills, taking his glass from the counter and emptying it; “you ain't got that silly lisp you used to have. What does your missis think of 'em?”

“She hasn't seen 'em yet,” said the other. “I had 'em put in at dinner-time. I ate my dinner with 'em.”

Mr. Mills expressed his admiration. “If it wasn't for your white hair and whiskers you'd look thirty again,” he said, slowly. “How old are you?”

“Fifty-three,” said his friend. “If it wasn't for being laughed at I've often thought of having my whiskers shaved off and my hair dyed black. People think I'm sixty.”

“Or seventy,” continued Mr. Mills. “What does it matter, people laughing? You've got a splendid head of 'air, and it would dye beautiful.”

Mr. Simpson shook his head and, ordering a couple of glasses of bitter, attacked his in silence.

“It might be done gradual,” he said, after a long interval. “It don't do anybody good at the warehouse to look old.”

“Make a clean job of it,” counselled Mr. Mills, who was very fond of a little cheap excitement. “Get it over and done with. You've got good features, and you'd look splendid clean-shaved.” Mr. Simpson smiled faintly. “Only on Wednesday the barmaid here was asking after you,” pursued Mr. Mills. Mr. Simpson smiled again. “She says to me, 'Where's Gran'pa?' she says, and when I says, haughty like, 'Who do you mean?' she says, 'Father Christmas!' If you was to tell her that you are only fifty-three, she'd laugh in your face.”

“Let her laugh,” said the other, sourly.

“Come out and get it off,” said Mr. Mills, earnestly. “There's a barber's in Bird Street; you could go in the little back room, where he charges a penny more, and get it done without anybody being a bit the wiser.”

He put his hand on Mr. Simpson's shoulder, and that gentleman, with a glare in the direction of the fair but unconscious offender, rose in a hypnotized fashion and followed him out. Twice on the way to Bird Street Mr. Simpson paused and said he had altered his mind, and twice did the propulsion of Mr. Mills's right hand, and his flattering argument, make him alter it again.

It was a matter of relief to Mr. Simpson that the barber took his instructions without any show of surprise. It appeared, indeed, that an elderly man of seventy-eight had enlisted his services for a similar purpose not two months before, and had got married six weeks afterwards. Age of the bride given as twenty-four, but said to have looked older.

A snip of the scissors, and six inches of white beard fell to the floor. For the first time in thirty years Mr. Simpson felt a razor on his face. Then his hair was cut and shampooed; and an hour later he sat gazing at a dark-haired, clean-shaven man in the glass who gazed back at him with wondering eyes—a lean-jawed, good-looking man, who, in a favourable light, might pass for forty. He turned and met the admiring eyes of Mr. Mills.

“What did I tell you?” inquired the latter. “You look young enough to be your own son.”

“Or grandson,” said the barber, with professional pride.

Mr. Simpson got up slowly from the chair and, accompanied by the admiring Mr. Mills, passed out into the street. The evening was young, and, at his friend's suggestion, they returned to the Plume of Feathers.

“You give the order,” said Mr. Mills, “and see whether she recognizes you.”

Mr. Simpson obeyed.

“Don't you know him?” inquired Mr. Mills, as the barmaid turned away.

“I don't think I have that pleasure,” said the girl, simpering.

“Gran'pa's eldest boy,” said Mr. Mills.

“Oh!” said the girl. “Well, I hope he's a better man than his father, then?”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Mr. Simpson, painfully conscious of his friend's regards.

“Nothing,” said the girl, “nothing. Only we can all be better, can't we? He's a nice old gentleman; so simple.”

“Don't know you from Adam,” said Mr. Mills, as she turned away. “Now, if you ask me, I don't believe as your own missis will recognize you.”

“Rubbish,” said Mr. Simpson. “My wife would know me anywhere. We've been married over thirty years. Thirty years of sunshine and shadow together. You're a single man, and don't understand these things.”

“P'r'aps you're right,” said his friend. “But it'll be a bit of a shock to her, anyway. What do you say to me stepping round and breaking the news to her? It's a bit sudden, you know. She's expecting a white-haired old gentleman, not a black-haired boy.”

Mr. Simpson looked a bit uneasy. “P'r'aps I ought to have told her first,” he murmured, craning his neck to look in the glass at the back of the bar.

“I'll go and put it right for you,” said his friend. “You stay here and smoke your pipe.”

He stepped out briskly, but his pace slackened as he drew near the house.

“I—I—came—to see you about your husband,” he faltered, as Mrs. Simpson opened the door and stood regarding him.

“What's the matter?” she exclaimed, with a faint cry. “What's happened to him?”

“Nothing,” said Mr. Mills, hastily. “Nothing serious, that is. I just came round to warn you so that you will be able to know it's him.”

Mrs. Simpson let off a shriek that set his ears tingling. Then, steadying herself by the wall, she tottered into the front room, followed by the discomfited Mr. Mills, and sank into a chair.

“He's dead!” she sobbed. “He's dead!”

“He is not,” said Mr. Mills.

“Is he much hurt? Is he dying?” gasped Mrs. Simpson.

“Only his hair,” said Mr. Mills, clutching at the opening. “He is not hurt at all.”

Mrs. Simpson dabbed at her eyes and sat regarding him in bewilderment. Her twin chins were still quivering with emotion, but her eyes were beginning to harden. “What are you talking about?” she inquired, in a raspy voice.

“He's been to a hairdresser's,” said Mr. Mills. “He's 'ad all his white whiskers cut off, and his hair cut short and dyed black. And, what with that and his new teeth, I thought—he thought—p'r'aps you mightn't know him when he came home.”

“Dyed?” cried Mrs. Simpson, starting to her feet.

Mr. Mills nodded. “He looks twenty years younger,” he said, with a smile. “He'd pass for his own son anywhere.”

Mrs. Simpson's eyes snapped. “Perhaps he'd pass for _my_ son,” she remarked.

“Yes, easy,” said the tactful Mr. Mills. “You can't think what a difference it's made to him. That's why I came to see you—so you shouldn't be startled.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Simpson. “I'm much obliged. But you might have spared yourself the trouble. I should know my husband anywhere.”

“Ah, that's what you think,” retorted Mr. Mills, with a smile; “but the barmaid at the Plume didn't. That's what made me come to you.”

Mrs. Simpson gazed at him.

“I says to myself,” continued Mr. Mills, “'If _she_ don't know him, I'm certain his missis won't, and I'd better——'”

“You'd better go,” interrupted his hostess.

Mr. Mills started, and then, with much dignity, stalked after her to the door.

“As to your story, I don't believe a word of it,” said Mrs. Simpson. “Whatever else my husband is, he isn't a fool, and he'd no more think of cutting off his whiskers and dyeing his hair than you would of telling the truth.”

“Seeing is believing,” said the offended Mr. Mills, darkly.

“I'll wait till I do see, and then I sha'n't believe,” was the reply. “It is a put-up job between you and some other precious idiot, I expect. But you can't deceive me. If your black-haired friend comes here, he'll get it, I can tell you.”

She slammed the door on his protests and, returning to the parlour, gazed fiercely into the glass on the mantelpiece. It reflected sixteen stone of honest English womanhood, a thin wisp of yellowish-grey hair, and a pair of faded eyes peering through clumsy spectacles.

“Son, indeed!” she said, her lips quivering. “You wait till you come home, my lord!”

Mr. Simpson, with some forebodings, returned home an hour later. To a man who loved peace and quietness the report of the indignant Mr. Mills was not of a reassuring nature. He hesitated on the doorstep for a few seconds while he fumbled for his key, and then, humming unconcernedly, hung his hat in the passage and walked into the parlour.

The astonished scream of his wife warned him that Mr. Mills had by no means exaggerated. She rose from her seat and, crouching by the fireplace, regarded him with a mixture of anger and dismay.

“It—it's all right, Milly,” said Mr. Simpson, with a smile that revealed a dazzling set of teeth.

“Who are you?” demanded Mrs. Simpson. “How dare you call me by my Christian name. It's a good job for you my husband is not here.”

“He wouldn't hurt me,” said Mr. Simpson, with an attempt at facetiousness. “He's the best friend I ever had. Why, we slept in the same cradle.”

“I don't want any of your nonsense,” said Mrs. Simpson. “You get out of my house before I send for the police. How dare you come into a respectable woman's house in this fashion? Be off with you.”

“Now, look here, Milly——” began Mr. Simpson.

His wife drew herself up to her full height of four feet eleven.

“I've had a hair-cut and a shave,” pursued her husband; “also I've had my hair restored to its natural colour. But I'm the same man, and you know it.”

“I know nothing of the kind,” said his wife, doggedly. “I don't know you from Adam. I've never seen you before, and I don't want to see you again. You go away.”

“I'm your husband, and my place is at home,” replied Mr. Simpson. “A man can have a shave if he likes, can't he? Where's my supper?”

“Go on,” said his wife. “Keep it up. But be careful my husband don't come in and catch you, that's all.”

Mr. Simpson gazed at her fixedly, and then, with an impatient exclamation, walked into the small kitchen and began to set the supper. A joint of cold beef, a jar of pickles, bread, butter, and cheese made an appetizing display. Then he took a jug from the dresser and descended to the cellar.

A musical trickling fell on the ear of Mrs. Simpson as she stood at the parlour door, and drew her stealthily to the cellar. The key was in the lock, and, with a sudden movement, she closed the door and locked it. A sharp cry from Mr. Simpson testified to his discomfiture.

“Now I'm off for the police,” cried his wife.

“Don't be a fool,” shouted Mr. Simpson, tugging wildly at the door-handle. “Open the door.”

Mrs. Simpson remained silent, and her husband resumed his efforts until the door-knob, unused to such treatment, came off in his hand. A sudden scrambling noise on the cellar stairs satisfied the listener that he had not pulled it off intentionally.

She stood for a few moments, considering. It was a stout door and opened inwards. She took her bonnet from its nail in the kitchen and, walking softly to the street-door, set off to lay the case before a brother who lived a few doors away.

“Poor old Bill,” said Mr. Cooper, when she had finished. “Still, it might be worse; he's got the barrel o' beer with him.”

“It's not Bill,” said Mrs. Simpson.

Mr. Cooper scratched his whiskers and looked at his wife.

“She ought to know,” said the latter. “We'll come and have a look at him,” said Mr. Cooper.

Mrs. Simpson pondered, and eyed him dubiously.

“Come in and have a bit of supper,” she said at last. “There's a nice piece of beef and pickles.”

“And Bill—I mean the stranger—sitting on the beer-barrel,” said Mr. Cooper, gloomily.

“You can bring your beer with you,” said his sister, sharply. “Come along.”

Mr. Cooper grinned, and, placing a couple of bottles in his coat pockets, followed the two ladies to the house. Seated at the kitchen table, he grinned again, as a persistent drumming took place on the cellar door. His wife smiled, and a faint, sour attempt in the same direction appeared on the face of Mrs. Simpson.

“Open the door!” bellowed an indignant voice. “Open the door!”

Mrs. Simpson, commanding silence with an uplifted finger, proceeded to carve the beef. A rattle of knives and forks succeeded.

“O—pen—the—door!” said the voice again.

“Not so much noise,” commanded Mr. Cooper. “I can't hear myself eat.”

“Bob!” said the voice, in relieved accents, “Bob! Come and let me out.”

Mr. Cooper, putting a huge hand over his mouth, struggled nobly with his feelings.

“Who are you calling 'Bob'?” he demanded, in an unsteady voice. “You keep yourself to yourself. I've heard all about you. You've got to stay there till my brother-in-law comes home.”

“It's me, Bob,” said Mr. Simpson—“Bill.”

“Yes, I dare say,” said Mr. Cooper; “but if you're Bill, why haven't you got Bill's voice?”

“Let me out and look at me,” said Mr. Simpson.

There was a faint scream from both ladies, followed by protests.

“Don't be alarmed,” said Mr. Cooper, reassuringly. “I wasn't born yesterday. I don't want to get a crack over the head.”

“It's all a mistake, Bob,” said the prisoner, appealingly. “I just had a shave and a haircut and—and a little hair-dye. If you open the door you'll know me at once.”

“How would it be,” said Mr. Cooper, turning to his sister, and speaking with unusual distinctness—“how would it be if you opened the door, and just as he put his head out I hit it a crack with the poker?”

“You try it on,” said the voice behind the door, hotly. “You know who I am well enough, Bob Cooper. I don't want any more of your nonsense. Milly has put you up to this!”

“If your wife don't know you, how do you think I can?” said Mr. Cooper. “Now, look here; you keep quiet till my brother-in-law comes home. If he don't come home perhaps we shall be more likely to think you're him. If he's not home by to-morrow morning we—_Hsh! Hsh!_ Don't you know there's ladies present?”

“That settles it,” said Mrs. Cooper, speaking for the first time. “My brother-in-law would never talk like that.”

“I should never forgive him if he did,” said her husband, piously.

He poured himself out another glass of beer and resumed his supper with relish. Conversation turned on the weather, and from that to the price of potatoes. Frantic efforts on the part of the prisoner to join in the conversation and give it a more personal turn were disregarded. Finally he began to kick with monotonous persistency on the door.

“Stop it!” shouted Mr. Cooper.

“I won't,” said Mr. Simpson.