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Updated: June 12, 2025
"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, 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.
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.
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.
But in works on crime that pretend to seriousness I would eschew, pace Mr Leonard R. Gribble, all `queens' and other honorifics in application to the lost men and women with whom such works must treat. There is no romance in crime. Romance is life gilded, life idealized. Crime is never anything but a sordid business, demonstrably poor in reward to its practitioners.
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.
He only reigned a few months, but he reigned sufficiently long to save Prussia from destruction and to surrender all the advantages secured by Russian triumphs and dearly paid for by Russian blood. There is no more fantastic fairy-tale and there is no more fascinating drama than the life-story of Catherine the Great, which recently has been so brilliantly told by Mr. Francis Gribble.
"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.
A far more gratifying subject is suggested by the harmony of the relations which were established in Chusan between the garrison under Sir Colin Campbell and the islanders, who expressed deep regret at the departure of the English troops. The first members of the consular staff in China were as follows: Mr. Henry Gribble at Ainoy, and Mr. Robert Thorn at Ningpo.
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?"
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