It was a dark, nasty sort o’ night, blowing and raining, and, o’ course, everybody ’ad gone to bed long since.  The fust cottage Joe came to was Bill Jones’s, and, knowing Bill’s temper, he stood for some time afore he could make up ’is mind to knock; but at last he up with ’is stick and banged away at the door.

A minute arterward he ’eard the bedroom winder pushed open, and then Bill Jones popped his ’cad out and called to know wot was the matter and who it was.

“It’s me—­Joe Barlcomb,” ses Joe, “and I want to speak to you very partikler.”

“Well, speak away,” ses Bill.  “You go into the back room,” he ses, turning to his wife.

“Whaffor?” ses Mrs. Jones.

“’Cos I don’t know wot Joe is going to say,” ses Bill.  “You go in now, afore I make you.”

His wife went off grumbling, and then Bill told Joe Barlcomb to hurry up wot he’d got to say as ’e ’adn’t got much on and the weather wasn’t as warm as it might be.

“I sold you a shilling for a ha’penny last night, Bill,” ses Joe.

“Do you want to sell any more?” ses Bill Jones, putting his ’and down to where ’is trouser pocket ought to be.

“Not exactly that,” ses Joe Barlcomb.  “This time I want you to sell me a shilling for a ha’penny.”

Bill leaned out of the winder and stared down at Joe Barlcomb, and then he ses, in a choking voice, “Is that wot you’ve come disturbing my sleep for at this time o’ night?” he ses.

“I must ’ave it, Bill,” ses Joe.

“Well, if you’ll wait a moment,” ses Bill, trying to speak perlitely, “I’ll come down and give it to you.”

Joe didn’t like ’is tone of voice, but he waited, and all of a sudden Bill Jones came out o’ that door like a gun going off and threw ’imself on Joe Barlcomb.  Both of ’em was strong men, and by the time they’d finished they was so tired they could ’ardly stand.  Then Bill Jones went back to bed, and Joe Barlcomb, arter sitting down on the doorstep to rest ’imself, went off and knocked up Peter Lamb.

Peter Lamb was a little man and no good as a fighter, but the things he said to Joe Barlcomb as he leaned out o’ the winder and shook ’is fist at him was ’arder to bear than blows.  He screamed away at the top of ’is voice for ten minutes, and then ’e pulled the winder to with a bang and went back to bed.

Joe Barlcomb was very tired, but he walked on to Jasper Potts’s ’ouse, trying ‘ard as he walked to decide which o’ the fust two ’ad made the most fuss.  Arter he ’ad left Jasper Potts ’e got more puzzled than ever, Jasper being just as bad as the other two, and Joe leaving ’im at last in the middle of loading ’is gun.

By the time he’d made ’is last call—­at Sam Martin’s—­it was past three o’clock, and he could no more tell Mrs. Prince which ’ad made the most fuss than ’e could fly.  There didn’t seem to be a pin to choose between ’em, and, ’arf worried out of ’is life, he went straight on to Mrs. Prince and knocked ’er up to tell ’er.  She thought the ’ouse was afire at fust, and came screaming out o’ the front door in ’er bedgown, and when she found out who it was she was worse to deal with than the men ’ad been.