"Why not?" inquired his wife.

"Why?" repeated Mr. Grummit. "Why? Why, becos I'll make the place too
'ot to hold him. Ain't there enough houses in Tunwich without 'im
a-coming and living next door to me?"

For a whole week the brain concealed in Mr. Grummit's bullet-shaped head
worked in vain, and his temper got correspondingly bad. The day after
the Evans' arrival he had found his yard littered with tins which he
recognized as old acquaintances, and since that time they had travelled
backwards and forwards with monotonous regularity. They sometimes made
as many as three journeys a day, and on one occasion the heavens opened
to drop a battered tin bucket on the back of Mr. Grummit as he was tying
his bootlace. Five minutes later he spoke of the outrage to Mr. Evans,
who had come out to admire the sunset.

"I heard something fall," said the constable, eyeing the pail curiously.

"You threw it," said Mr. Grummit, breathing furiously.

"Me? Nonsense," said the other, easily. "I was having tea in the
parlour with my wife and my mother-in-law, and my brother Joe and his
young lady."

"Any more of 'em?" demanded the hapless Mr. Grummit, aghast at this list
of witnesses for an alibi.

"It ain't a bad pail, if you look at it properly," said the constable.
"I should keep it if I was you; unless the owner offers a reward for it.
It'll hold enough water for your wants."