He came home at night glum and silent, the hardship of not being able to
give Mr. Evans his deserts without incurring hard labour having weighed
on his spirits all day. To avoid the annoyance of the piano next door,
which was slowly and reluctantly yielding up "_The Last Rose of Summer_"
note by note, he went out at the back, and the first thing he saw was Mr.
Evans mending his path with tins and other bric-a-brac.
"Nothing like it," said the constable, looking up. "Your missus gave 'em
to us this morning. A little gravel on top, and there you are."
He turned whistling to his work again, and the other, after endeavouring
in vain to frame a suitable reply, took a seat on an inverted wash-tub
and lit his pipe. His one hope was that Constable Evans was going to try
and cultivate a garden.
The hope was realized a few days later, and Mr. Grummit at the back
window sat gloating over a dozen fine geraniums, some lobelias and
calceolarias, which decorated the constable's plot of ground. He could
not sleep for thinking of them.
He rose early the next morning, and, after remarking to Mrs. Grummit that
Mr. Evans's flowers looked as though they wanted rain, went off to his
work.
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