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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.
"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.
I want to 'ave a word with this policeman here. Goodnight." 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.
"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.
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.
There is no need then, after all, for any crime writer who wants to fry a modest basket of fish to mourn because Mr Roughead, Mr. Beaufroy Barry, Mr Guy Logan, Miss Tennyson Jesse, Mr Leonard R. Gribble, and others of his estimable fellows seem to have swiped all the sole and salmon.
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.
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, whitefaced woman on the bed to the bulky figure of Mr. Gribble.
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.
"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.
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