He was not ungrateful for the
collector's frequent forbearance, and, when able to speak
coherently, tried at times to show this. Waymark had got into the
habit of sitting with him in his room for a little time, whenever he
found him at home. Of late, Slimy had seemed not quite in his usual
health; this exhibited itself much as it would in some repulsive
animal, which suffers in captivity, and tries to find a remote
corner when pains come on. At times Waymark experienced a certain
fear in the man's presence; if ever he met the dull glare of that
one bleared blood-shot eye, a chill ran through him for a moment,
and he drew back a little. Personal uncleanliness made Slimy's
proximity at all times unpleasant; and occasionally his gaunt,
grimed face grew to an expression suggestive of disagreeable
possibilities.
On the present day, Waymark was told by a woman who lived on the
ground-floor that Slimy had gone out, but had left word with her, in
case the collector called, that he should be back in less than
half-an-hour. Doubtless this meant that the rent was not
forthcoming. The people who lived on the first floor were out as
usual, but had left their rent. Of the two rooms at the top, one was
just now vacant.
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