“Well, you've got it,” ses Mrs. Cook, “and now you can go.” “You're pi'soning the air of my front parlour,” ses old Cook, opening the winder a little at the top. “P'r'aps I ain't so bad as you think I am,” ses Jack Bates, still looking at Emma, and with that 'e walked over to Charlie and dumped down the money on the table in front of 'im. “Take it,” he ses, “and don't borrow any more. I make you a free gift of it. P'r'aps my 'art ain't as black as my face,” he ses, turning to Mrs. Cook. They was all so surprised at fust that they couldn't speak, but old Cook smiled at 'im and put the winder up agin. And Charlie Tagg sat there arf mad with temper, looking as though 'e could eat Jack Bates without any salt, as the saying is. “I—I can't take it,” he ses at last, with a stammer. “Can't take it? Why not?” ses old Cook, staring. “This gentleman 'as given it to you.” “A free gift,” ses Mrs. Cook, smiling at Jack very sweet. “I can't take it,” ses Charlie, winking at Jack to take the money up and give it to 'im quiet, as arranged. “I 'ave my pride.” “So 'ave I,” ses Jack. “Are you going to take it?” Charlie gave another look. “No,” he ses, “I cant take a favour. I borrowed the money and I'll pay it back. “Very good,” ses Jack, taking it up. “It's my money, ain't it?” “Yes,” ses Charlie, taking no notice of Mrs. Cook and 'er husband, wot was both talking to 'im at once, and trying to persuade 'im to alter his mind. “Then I give it to Miss Emma Cook,” ses Jack Bates, putting it into her hands. “Good-night everybody and good luck.” He slammed the front door behind 'im and they 'eard 'im go off down the road as if 'e was going for fire-engines. Charlie sat there for a moment struck all of a heap, and then 'e jumped up and dashed arter 'im. He just saw 'im disappearing round a corner, and he didn't see 'im agin for a couple o' year arterwards, by which time the Sydney gal had 'ad three or four young men arter 'im, and Emma, who 'ad changed her name to Smith, was doing one o' the best businesses in the chandlery line in Poplar. THE CONSTABLE'S MOVE Mr. Bob Grummit sat in the kitchen with his corduroy-clad legs stretched on the fender. His wife's half-eaten dinner was getting cold on the table; Mr. Grummit, who was badly in need of cheering up, emptied her half-empty glass of beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Come away, I tell you,” he called. “D'ye hear? Come away. You'll be locked up if you don't.” He gave a little laugh at the sarcasm, and sticking his short pipe in his mouth lurched slowly to the front-room door and scowled at his wife as she lurked at the back of the window watching intently the furniture which was being carried in next door. “Come away or else you'll be locked up,” repeated Mr. Grummit. “You mustn't look at policemen's furniture; it's agin the law.”