"I should be, John, if trade was allowed to go on in a proper way. But co-operation'll be the death of me long before my proper time."
"My girl's gone to the theatre," observed Old Wheels, to change the subject.
"It'll do her good," paid Mrs. Gribble; "she's been looking pale of late."
"I'm going to take father to the Music Hall to-night," said Gribble junior. "He's never been to one. You see, Mr. Wheels, what I complain of in father is, that he won't keep moving."
"It's too late, John; it's too late. My joints are stiff."
"Perhaps so, but there's no occasion to make 'em stiffer. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Go in for everything, I say--go in for work, and go in for play; and keep moving. How do you think baby's looking, Mr. Wheels?"
Old Wheels pinched the baby's cheek, and said gaily that the co-operative store couldn't turn out a baby like that.
"Do you hear that, father?" cried Mrs. Gribble junior, with a merry laugh. "Do you hear that?"
"Mr. Wheels is quite right," replied Gribble senior, faithful to his theories; "it ain't likely that anything good and wholesome can come out of co-operation."
"How's trade, Mr. Gribble?"