At length the hall-door was opened, and a hard-faced ruffian came out upon the steps, shouting the name of a man named O’Hare.  The man immediately approached the steps, and after shaking the heavy rain out of his big coat, and having whisked his hat backwards and forwards several times, that he might not soil his honor’s office, he was brought in, and having made his humble bow, stood to hear his honor’s pleasure.  His honor, however, who had divided the labor between himself and Phil, had also, by an arrangement which was understood between them, allotted that young gentleman, at his own request, a peculiar class marked out in the rental, in which class this man stood.  “O’Hare,” said Val, “how do you do?”

“Upon my conscience, your honor, but poorly,” replied O’Hare, “the last heavy fit of illness, joined to the bad times, sir—­”

“O’Hare,” said Solomon, “suffer me humbly, and without assuming anything to myself, to point out to you the impropriety of swearing; I do it, my friend, in all humility; for I fear, that so long as you indulge in that most sinful practice, the times will seldom be other than bad with you, or, indeed, with any one that gives way to so Wicked a habit.  Excuse me, O’Hare, I speak to you as a Christian, I humbly trust.”

“By G—­, that’s good, father,” exclaimed Phil, “M’Slime preaching to such a fellow as this!”

“I humbly thank you, sir,” said O’Hare to Solomon, “for your kindness in—­”

“Thank the devil, sirra,” said Phil; “What the devil does he or I care about your d——­d thanks.  Have you your rent?”

The man, with trembling hands, placed some notes, and gold, and silver before him—­the latter being rolled up in the former.

“I’m short for the present,” he added, “just thirty shilling, sir; but you can give me an acknowledgment for the sum I give you now:  a regular receipt will do when I bring you the balance, which, God willin’, will be in about a fortnight.”

“Ay, and this is your rent, Mr. O’Hare,” exclaimed Phil, gathering up the money into a lump, and with all his force flinging it at the man’s head; “this is your rent, Mister O’Hare,” placing an emphasis of contempt on the word Mr.; “thirty shillings short, Mr. O’Hare, but I’ll tell you what, Mr. O’Hare, by —–­, if you don’t have the full rent for me in two hours, Mr. O’Hare, I’ll make short work, and you may sleep on the dunghill.  I can in ten minutes get more rent than you pay, Mr. O’Hare, so now go to h—­l, and get the money, or out you go.”

The poor man stooped down, and with considerable search and difficulty, succeeded in picking up his money.

“In two hours, sir,” said he, “I could never do it.”

“That’s your own business,” said Phil, “not mine—­if you have it not for me in two hours, out you go; so now be off to hell out of this, and get it.”

Val, who had been poring over an account-book, now raised his head, as if disturbed by the noise for the first time—­