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Updated: June 12, 2025
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.
"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.
Instead, he came back suddenly on his haunches, as if the rope on the cow-puncher's saddle had lurched to the leap of a steer. Coco knew well the precise instant when it is advisable for a cow-pony to forestall the wrench of the lasso. But now the loop of hemp hung limp on the saddle-horn, and Gribble, surprised at being nearly thrown, rose in the stirrups to see what was underfoot.
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.
"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.
"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.
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.
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.
"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."
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.
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