"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."
"Then you're in luck. This is the new collector, d'you see."
"I've been a-looking at him," said Slimy, whose one eye, for all
that, had seemed busy all the time in quite a different direction.
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