"Obliged to be. My motto, you know--keep moving. I always think," and Gribble junior sent a pleasant merry look in the direction of the old man, "that it's going to rain to-morrow, and that people'll want umbrellas."
"Very good of you, very considerate," murmured the old man.
"It wouldn't be so bad," continued Gribble junior, "if other people, whether they're professors of anatomy or not, would think the same way; if they'd think it was going to rain to-morrow, and if they'd prepare their umbrellas to-day--as a body might say."
"Surely, surely," said the old man, contriving by an effort to arrest his wandering thoughts. "And how's business, Mr. Gribble?"
"Never was so bad," replied Gribble junior cheerfully. "Father's experience'll carry him a good deal farther back than mine will, as you may guess, Mr. Wheels, and he says times never was so bad as they are now."
(It is remarkable, be where you will and at any period, here or in any other part of the world, now or twenty years since or twenty years to come, that "times never were so bad" as they are certain to be at the moment of inquiry.)
"What is the cause of the bad times?" asked the old man, who had not yet found the opportunity of introducing the object of his visit, and who knew that Gribble junior must always "have his say."
"Well, Mr. Wheels," said Gribble junior, hammering softly on a dislocated rib, "some will have it it's because the Queen don't come out more; but that's an old cry, and I don't believe in it. Though I think it would be better if the Queen came amongst us more than she does. It's queer how people will stick to old cries. Old cries are like old boots. You wear tight boots long enough, and they'll become easy and comfortable, and you don't like to throw 'em off. Father says it's the co-operative stores, and he's bitter on 'em accordingly. If father's got a sore place, it's co-operation. You should start him on the subject one night; he'd open your eyes for you. There isn't an article you can mention that co-operation hasn't laid hands on--except cats'-meat, perhaps. The co-operative men don't draw the line nowhere, except at cats'-meat. There isn't a thing that father sells that they haven't gone into: not that father's business is the only business that's put upon. They go into coffins, and that's going far enough, I'm sure--as a body might say. They take a penny off everything; tallow-dips, yellow soap and mottled. As for scented and brown windsor, father hasn't sold a cake for a month. And if things don't sell, they spoil. Dust won't be denied. Then soap withers. It's like us, Mr. Wheels; the bloom goes off, and we ain't worth as much a pound as we were once on a time. We don't weigh so much neither: the sap goes out. Flies make inroads. They're like co-operation; they touch everything. The very mouse-traps get blown. As for what ought to be inside of 'em--mice--I needn't tell you what a hole they make in profits. I pity the small grocers now that co-operation's got hold of things."
During the brief pause that followed, the old man listened for a sound from the sick-room. Mrs. Gribble observed his anxiety, and knowing her husband's weakness when he was on a favourite theme, rose and said,
"Do take a chair, Mr. Wheels. I'll go and sit in your room for a few minutes."