kicking the gate. It was so violent I 'ardly liked to go at fust,
thinking it might be bad news, but I opened it at last, and in bust Sam
Small, with Ginger and Peter.

For five minutes they all talked at once, with their nasty fists 'eld
under my nose. I couldn't make lead or tail of it at fust, and then I
found as 'ow they 'ad got the dog back with them, and that the landlord
'ad said 'e wasn't the one.

"But 'e said as he thought the collar was his," ses Sam. "'Ow do you
account for that?"

"P'r'aps he made a mistake," I ses; "or p'r'aps he thought you'd turn
the dog adrift and he'd get it back for nothing. You know wot landlords
are. Try 'im agin."

"I'd pretty well swear he ain't the same dog," ses Peter Russet, looking
in a puzzled way at Sam and Ginger.

"You take 'im back to-morrow night," I ses. "It's a nice walk to Bow.
And then come back and beg my pardon. I want to 'ave a word with this
policeman here. Goodnight."

THE WEAKER VESSEL

Mr. Gribble sat in his 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? 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.

"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.