ung bodily out of the
room, falling with a crash upon the landing. Then from her and the
child arose a most terrific uproar of commination; both together yelled
such foulness and blasphemy as can only be conceived by those who have
made a special study of this vocabulary, and the vituperation of the
child was, if anything, richer in quality than the mother's. The
former, moreover, did not confine herself to words, but all at once
sent her clenched fist through every pain of glass in the window,
heedless of the fearful cuts she inflicted upon herself, and uttering a
wild yell of triumph at each fracture. Mr. Woodstock was too late to
save his property, but he caught up the creature like a doll, and flung
her out also on to the landing, then coolly locked the door behind him,
put the key in his pocket, and, letting Waymark pass on first,
descended the stairs. The yelling and screeching behind them continued
as long as they were in the Court, but it drew no attention from the
neighbours, who were far too accustomed to this kind of thing to heed
it.

In the last house they had to enter they came upon a man asleep on a
bare bedstead. It was difficult to wake him. When at length he was
aroused, he glared at them for a moment with one blood-shot eye (the
other was sightless), looking much like a wild beast which doubts
whether to spring or to shrink back.

"Rent, Slimy," said Mr. Woodstock with more of good humour than usual.

The man pointed to the mantelpiece, where the pieces of money were
found to be lying. Waymark looked round the room. Besides the bedstead,
a table was the only article of furniture, and on it stood a dirty jug
and a glass. Lying about was a strange collection of miscellaneous
articles, heaps of rags and dirty paper, bottles, boots, bones. There
were one or two chairs in process of being new-caned; there was a
wooden frame for holding glass, such as is carried about by itinerant
glaziers, and, finally, there was a knife-grinding instrument, adapted
for wheeling about the streets. The walls were all scribbled over with
obscene words and drawings. On the inside of the door had been fitted
two enormous bolts, one above and one below.

"How's trade, Slimy?" inquired Mr. Woodstock.

"Which trade, Mr. Woodstock?" asked the man in return, in a very husky
voice.

"Oh, trade in general."

"There never was sich times since old Scratch died," replied Slimy,
shaking his head. "No chance for a honest man."