Illustrated by Will O wen. 
R. GRIBBLE sat in bis 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 ? 
Vol. xlvi.— 56 . 
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. 
<k 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. u 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 him 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.” 
lie 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 
Copyright, 1913, by W. W. Jacobs. 
