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Updated: June 17, 2025
Once Mr. Grummit even went so far as to tap with his nails on the front parlour window, and the only response was the sudden lowering of the blind.
"I should find 'em out fast enough if I 'ad a bucket dropped on my back, I know." Mr. Grummit made a retort the feebleness of which was somewhat balanced by its ferocity, and subsided into glum silence. His back still ached, but, despite that aid to intellectual effort, the only ways he could imagine of making the constable look foolish contained an almost certain risk of hard labour for himself.
Evans ought to be boiled, were miserably deficient in ideas as to the means by which such a desirable end was to be attained. "Make 'im a laughing-stock, that's the best thing," said an elderly labourer. "The police don't like being laughed at." "'Ow?" demanded Mr. Grummit, with some asperity. "There's plenty o' ways," said the old man.
The watch on deck were hanging listlessly about, finding even their usual employment irksome. A few old hands might have been seen making a grummit or pointing a rope, while the sailmaker and his crew were at work on a suite of boat-sails; here and there also a marine might have been seen cleaning his musket, but finding the barrel rather hotter to touch than was pleasant.
"I might have waited years if it hadn't been for them." He nodded to the frantic Grummit and turned away; Mr. Grummit, without any adieu at all, turned and crept back to the house. "GRATITOODE!" said the night-watchman, with a hard laugh. "Hmf! Don't talk to me about gratitoode; I've seen too much of it.
The constable was at the door smoking in his shirt-sleeves, and Mr. Grummit felt instinctively that he was waiting there to see him pass. "I heard you last night," said the constable, playfully. "My word! Good gracious!" "Wot's the matter with you?" demanded Mr. Grummit, stopping short. The constable stared at him. "She has been knocking you about," he gasped.
The clock of Tunwich church struck twelve, and the last stroke was just dying away as he turned a corner and ran almost into the arms of the man he had been trying to avoid. "Halloa!" said Constable Evans, sharply. "Here, I want a word with you." Mr. Grummit quailed. "With me, sir?" he said, with involuntary respect. "What have you been doing to my flowers?" demanded the other, hotly.
Grummit, forgetting his own injuries, stood smiling at the wreck before him. The constable's helmet had been smashed and trodden on; his uniform was torn and covered with blood and dirt, and his good looks marred for a fortnight at least. He stooped with a groan, and, recovering his helmet, tried mechanically to punch it into shape. He stuck the battered relic on his head, and Mr.
She raked up misdemeanours that he had long since forgotten, and, not content with that, had a fling at the entire Grummit family, beginning with her mother-in-law and ending with Mr. Grummit's youngest sister. The hand that held the copper-stick itched. "Any more to say?" demanded Mr. Grummit advancing upon her. Mrs. Grummit emitted a genuine shriek, and Mr.
Grummit, amiably. Mrs. Grummit, first listening to make sure that the constable and his wife were in the bedroom the other side of the flimsy wall, complied, and in a voice that rose gradually to a piercing falsetto told Mr. Grummit things that had been rankling in her mind for some months.
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