A joint of cold beef, a jar of pickles, bread, butter, and cheese made
an appetizing display. Then he took a jug from the dresser and
descended to the cellar.
A musical trickling fell on the ear of Mrs. Simpson as she stood at the
parlour door, and drew her stealthily to the cellar. The key was in the
lock, and, with a sudden movement, she closed the door and locked it. A
sharp cry from Mr. Simpson testified to his discomfiture.
"Now I'm off for the police," cried his wife.
"Don't be a fool," shouted Mr. Simpson, tugging wildly at the door-
handle. "Open the door."
Mrs. Simpson remained silent, and her husband resumed his efforts until
the door-knob, unused to such treatment, came off in his hand. A sudden
scrambling noise on the cellar stairs satisfied the listener that he had
not pulled it off intentionally.
She stood for a few moments, considering. It was a stout door and
opened inwards. She took her bonnet from its nail in the kitchen and,
walking softly to the street-door, set off to lay the case before a
brother who lived a few doors away.
"Poor old Bill," said Mr. Cooper, when she had finished. "Still, it
might be worse; he's got the barrel o' beer with him."
"It's not Bill," said Mrs. Simpson.
Mr. Cooper scratched his whiskers and looked at his wife.
"She ought to know," said the latter. "We'll come and have a look at
him," said Mr. Cooper.
Mrs. Simpson pondered, and eyed him dubiously.
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