He turned his superior eye to the cornice above Redwood’s head. “ ’Ow do we know the ratth ’aven’t got it, Thir! That ’th what I think of motht, Thir. I ’aven’t theen any big ratth, Thir, but ’ow do I know, Thir. We been frightened for dayth becauth of the earwigth we’ve theen—like lobthters they wath—two of ’em, Thir—and the frightful way the canary creeper wath growing, and directly I heard the waptheth—directly I eard ’em, Thir, I underthood. I didn’t wait for nothing exthept to thow on a button I’d lortht, and then I came on up. Even now, Thir, I’m arf wild with angthiety, Thir. ’Ow do I know watth happenin’ to Mithith Thkinner, Thir! Thereth the creeper growing all over the plathe like a thnake, Thir—thwelp me but you ’ave to watch it, Thir, and jump out of itth way!—and the earwigth gettin’ bigger and bigger, and the waptheth—. She ’athen’t even got a Blue Bag, Thir—if anything thould happen, Thir!”
“But the hens,” said Mr. Bensington; “how are the hens?”
“We fed ’em up to yethterday, thwelp me,” said Mr. Skinner, “But thith morning we didn’t dare, Thir. The noithe of the waptheth wath—thomething awful, Thir. They wath coming ont—dothenth. Ath big ath ’enth. I thayth, to ’er, I thayth you juth thow me on a button or two, I thayth, for I can’t go to London like thith, I thayth, and I’ll go up to Mithter Benthington, I thayth, and ekthplain thingth to ’im. And you thtop in thith room till I come back to you, I thayth, and keep the windowth thhut jutht ath tight ath ever you can, I thayth.”
“If you hadn’t been so confoundedly untidy—” began Redwood.
“Oh! don’t thay that, Thir,” said Skinner. “Not now, Thir. Not with me tho diththrethed, Thir, about Mithith Thkinner, Thir! Oh, don’t, Thir! I ’aven’t the ’eart to argue with you. Thwelp me, Thir, I ’aven’t! Itth the ratth I keep a thinking of—’Ow do I know they ’aven’t got at Mithith Thkinner while I been up ’ere?”
“And you haven’t got a solitary measurement of all these beautiful growth curves!” said Redwood.
“I been too upthet, Thir,” said Mr. Skinner. “If you knew what we been through—me and the mithith! All thith latht month. We ’aven’t known what to make of it, Thir. What with the henth gettin’ tho rank, and the earwigth, and the canary creeper. I dunno if I told you, Thir—the canary creeper …”
“You’ve told us all that,” said Redwood. “The thing is, Bensington, what are we to do?”
“What are we to do?” said Mr. Skinner.
“You’ll have to go back to Mrs. Skinner,” said Redwood. “You can’t leave her there alone all night.”
“Not alone, Thir, I don’t. Not if there wath a dothen Mithith Thkinnerth. Itth Mithter Benthington—”
“Nonsense,” said Redwood. “The wasps will be all right at night. And the earwigs will get out of your way—”
“But about the ratth?”
“There aren’t any rats,” said Redwood.
VI
Mr. Skinner might have foregone his chief anxiety. Mrs. Skinner did not stop out her day.
About eleven the canary creeper, which had been quietly active all the morning, began to clamber over the window and darken it very greatly, and the darker it got the more and more clearly Mrs. Skinner perceived that her position would speedily become untenable. And also that she had lived many ages since Skinner went. She peered out of the darkling window, through the stirring tendrils, for some time, and then went very cautiously and opened the bedroom door and listened. …
Everything seemed quiet, and so, tucking her skirts high about her, Mrs. Skinner made a bolt for the bedroom, and having first looked under the bed and locked herself in, proceeded with the methodical rapidity of an experienced woman to pack for departure. The bed had not been made, and the room was littered with pieces of the creeper that Skinner had hacked off in order to close the window overnight, but these disorders she did not heed. She packed in a decent sheet. She packed all her own wardrobe and a velveteen jacket that Skinner wore in his finer moments, and she packed a jar of pickles that had not been opened, and so far she was justified in her packing. But she also packed two of the hermetically closed tins containing Herakleophorbia IV that Mr. Bensington had brought on his last visit. (She was honest, good woman—but she was a grandmother, and her heart had burned within her to see such good growth lavished on a lot of dratted chicks.)
And having packed all these things, she put on her bonnet, took off her apron, tied a new bootlace round her umbrella, and after listening for a long time at door and window, opened the door and sallied out into a perilous world. The umbrella was under her arm and she clutched the bundle with two gnarled and resolute hands. It was her best Sunday bonnet, and the two poppies that reared their heads amidst its splendours of band and bead seemed instinct with the same tremulous courage that possessed her.
The features about the roots of her nose wrinkled with determination. She had had enough of it! All alone there! Skinner might come back there if he liked.
She went out by the front door, going that way not because she wanted
