"They'll be 'aving a pianner next," said the indignant Mr. Grummit,
peering from the depths of the room.

"They've got one," responded his wife; "there's the end if it stickin' up
in the van."

Mr. Grummit advanced and regarded the end fixedly. "Did you throw all
them tin cans and things into their yard wot I told you to?" he demanded.

"He picked up three of 'em while I was upstairs," replied his wife. "I
'eard 'im tell her that they'd come in handy for paint and things."

"That's 'ow coppers get on and buy pianners," said the incensed Mr.
Grummit, "sneaking other people's property. I didn't tell you to throw
good 'uns over, did I? Wot d'ye mean by it?"

Mrs. Grummit made no reply, but watched with bated breath the triumphal
entrance of the piano. The carman set it tenderly on the narrow
footpath, while P. C. Evans, stooping low, examined it at all points, and
Mrs. Evans, raising the lid, struck a few careless chords.

"Showing off," explained Mrs. Grummit, with a half turn; "and she's got
fingers like carrots."

"It's a disgrace to Mulberry Gardens to 'ave a copper come and live in
it," said the indignant Grummit; "and to come and live next to me!--
that's what I can't get over. To come and live next door to a man wot
has been fined twice, and both times wrong. Why, for two pins I'd go in
and smash 'is pianner first and 'im after it. He won't live 'ere long,