Waymark went on to the two or three houses that
remained. On turning back, he met Slimy at the door; the man nodded
in his wonted way, grinning like a grisly phantom, and beckoned
Waymark to follow him upstairs. The woman below had closed her door
again, and in all probability no one observed the two entering
together.
Waymark sat down amid the collection of nondescript articles which
always filled the room, and waited for the tenant to produce his
rent. Slimy seemed to have other things in mind. After closing the
door, he too had taken a seat, upon a heap of filthy sacking, and
was running his fingers through the shock of black hair which made
his beard. Waymark examined him. There was no sign of intoxication,
but something was evidently working in the man's mind, and his
breath came quickly, with a kind of asthmatic pant, from between his
thin lips, still parted in the uncanny grin.
"Mr. Waymark," he began at length.
"Well?"
"I ain't got no rent."
"That's bad. You're two weeks behind, you know."
"Mr. Waymark."
The single eye fixed itself on Waymark's face in a way which made
the latter feel uncomfortable.
"Well?"
"I ain't a-gem' to pay you no more rent, nor yet no one else,
maybe.
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