442 
THE STRAND MAGAZINE. 
Ills good-humour had evaporated by the 
morning, and, having made a light breakfast 
of five cups of tea, be 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. What use was 
money without freedom ? His toil was 
sweetened that day by the knowledge that 
he could drop it at any time he liked and walk 
out, a free man, into the sunlight. 
By the end of a week his mind was made 
up. Each day that passed made his hurried 
uprising and scrambled breakfast more and 
more irksome ; and on Monday morning, 
with hands in trouser - pockets and legs 
stretched out, he leaned back in his chair 
and received his wife’s alarming intimations 
as to the flight of time with a superior and 
sphinx-like smile. 
“ It’s too fine to go to work to-day,” he 
said, lazily. “ 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. 
“ I spoke to old Potts as one gentleman of 
independent means to another,” said Mr. 
Gribble, smiling. “ Thirty-five bob a week 
after twenty years’ service ! And he had the 
cheek to tell me I wasn’t worth that. When 
I told him what he was worth he talked about 
sending for the police. What are you looking 
like that for ? I’ve worked hard for you for 
thirty years, and I’ve had enough of it. 
Now it’s yOur turn.” 
“ You’d find it hard to get another place 
at your age/’ said his wife ; “ especially if 
they wouldn’t give you a good character.” 
“ Place ! ” said the other, staring. iS Place ! 
I tell you I’ve done with work. For a man o’ 
my means to go on working for thirty-five bob 
a week is ridiculous.” 
“ But suppose anything happened to me,” 
said his wife, in a troubled voice. 
“ 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. 
* k 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 dis- 
mayed Mr. Gribble. “ What am 1 to do ? ” 
Mrs. Gribble put her handkerchief to her 
eyes. 
“ And don’t start weakening your constitu- 
tion by crying,” shouted the incensed husband. 
“ What are you mumbling ? ” 
“ I sa — sa — said, let’s hope — you’ll go — 
first,” sobbed his wife. “ Then it will be all 
right.” 
Mr. 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 perora- 
tion which his wife listened to with her lingers 
in her ears — mind you, I reckon I’ve been 
absolutely done by you and your precious 
Uncle George. 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. Gribble sighed, and her husband, 
after a few further remarks concerning Uncle 
George, his past and his future, announced 
his intention of going to the lawyers and 
seeing whether anything could be done. He 
came" back in a state of voiceless gloom, and 
spent the rest of a beautiful day indoors, 
smoking a pipe which had lost much of its 
flavour, and regarding with a critical and 
anxious eye the small, weedy figure of his 
wife as she went about her work. 
The second month’s payment went into 
his pocket as a matter of course, hut on this 
occasion Mrs. 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. After 
five coughs she said she thought it was her 
chest. 
“ You’d better not go out o’ doors to-day, 
then,” said Mr. Gribble. “ Don’t stand about 
in draughts ; and I’ll fetch you in a bottle of 
cough mixture when I go out. What about 
a lay-down on the sofa ? ” 
His wife thanked him, and, reaching the 
