Grafton Arms.

It was past eleven when he returned, but even the spectacle of his wife
laboriously darning her old dress failed to reduce his good-humour in
the slightest degree. In a frivolous mood he even took a feather from
the dismembered hat on the table and stuck it in his hair. He took the
stump of a strong cigar from his lips and, exhaling a final cloud of
smoke, tossed it into the fireplace.

"Uncle George dead," he said, at last, shaking his head. "Hadn't
pleasure acquaintance, but good man. Good man."

He shook his head again and gazed mistily at his wife.

"He was a teetotaller," she remarked, casually.

"He was tee-toiler," repeated Mr. Gribble, regarding her equably. "Good
man. Uncle George dead-tee-toller."

Mrs. Gribble gathered up her work and began to put it away.

"Bed-time," said Mr. Gribble, and led the way upstairs, singing.

His good-humour had evaporated by the morning, and, having made a light
breakfast of five cups of tea, he 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 any time he liked and walk out, a free man, into the