Its not that, explained Mrs. Postwhistle. If a Saturday morning appened to come round as e didnt pay up without me asking, I should know Id made a mistakethat it must be Friday. If I dont appen to be in at alf-past ten, e puts it in an envelope and leaves it on the table.
Wonder if his mother has got any more like him? mused Mr. Clodd. Could do with a few about this neighbourhood. What is it you want to say about him, then? Merely to brag about him?
I wanted to ask you, continued Mrs. Postwhistle, ow I could get rid of im. It was rather a curious agreement.
Why do you want to get rid of him? Too noisy?
Noisy! Why, the cat makes more noise about the ouse than e does. Ed make is fortune as a burglar.
Come home late?
Never known im out after the shutters are up.
Gives you too much trouble then?
I cant say that of im. Never know whether es in the ouse or isnt, without going upstairs and knocking at the door.
Here, you tell it your own way, suggested the bewildered Clodd. If it was anyone else but you, I should say you didnt know your own business.
E gets on my nerves, said Mrs. Postwhistle. You aint in a urry for five minutes?
Mr. Clodd was always in a hurry. But I can forget it talking to you, added the gallant Mr. Clodd.
Mrs. Postwhistle led the way into the little parlour.
Just the name of it, consented Mr. Clodd. Cheerfulness combined with temperance; thats the ideal.
Ill tell you what appened only last night, commenced Mrs. Postwhistle, seating herself the opposite side of the loo-table. A letter came for im by the seven oclock post. Id seen im go out two hours before, and though Id been sitting in the shop the whole blessed time, I never saw or eard im pass through. Es like that. Its like aving a ghost for a lodger. I opened is door without knocking and went in. If youll believe me, e was clinging with is arms and legs to the top of the bedsteadits one of those old-fashioned, four-post thingsis ead touching the ceiling. E adnt got too much clothes on, and was cracking nuts with is teeth and eating em. E threw a andful of shells at me, and making the most awful faces at me, started off gibbering softly to himself.
All play, I suppose? No real vice? commented the interested Mr. Clodd.
It will go on for a week, that will, continued Mrs. Postwhistlee fancying imself a monkey. Last week he was a tortoise, and was crawling about on his stomach with a tea-tray tied on to is back. Es as sensible as most men, if thats saying much, the moment es outside the front door; but in the ousewell, I suppose the fact is that es a lunatic.
Dont seem no hiding anything from you, Mrs. Postwhistle, remarked Mr. Clodd in tones of admiration. Does he ever get violent?
Dont know what e would be like if e appened to fancy imself something really dangerous, answered Mrs. Postwhistle. I am a bit nervous of this new monkey game, I dont mind confessing to youthe things that they do according to the picture-books. Up to now, except for imagining imself a mole, and
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