Yet at length something stirred him to a more pronounced interest.  He was on the edge of a dense throng which had just been delighted by the rhetoric of a well-known Clerkenwell Radical; the topic under discussion was Bent, and the last speaker had, in truth, put before them certain noteworthy views of the subject as it affected the poor of London.  What attracted Mr. Snowdon’s attention was the voice of the speaker who next rose.  Pressing a little nearer, he got a glimpse of a lean, haggard, grey-headed man, shabbily dressed, no bad example of a sufferer from the hardships he was beginning to denounce.  ‘That’s old Hewett,’ remarked somebody close by.  ’He’s the feller to let ’em ‘ave it!’ Yes, it was John Hewett, much older, much more broken, yet much fiercer than when we last saw him.  Though it was evident that he spoke often at these meetings, he had no command of his voice and no coherence of style; after the first few words he seemed to be overcome by rage that was little short of frenzy.  Inarticulate screams and yells interrupted the torrent of his invective; he raised both hands above his head and clenched them in a gesture of frantic passion; his visage was frightfully distorted, and in a few minutes there actually fell drops of blood from his bitten lip.  Rent!—­it was a subject on which the poor fellow could speak to some purpose.  What was the root of the difficulty a London workman found in making both ends meet?  Wasn’t it that accursed law by which the owner of property can make him pay a half, and often more, of his earnings or permission to put his wife and children under a roof?  And what sort of dwellings were they, these in which the men who made the wealth of the country were born and lived and died?  What would happen to the landlords of Clerkenwell if they got their due?  Ay, what shall happen, my boys, and that before so very long?  For fifteen or twenty minutes John expended his fury, until, in fact, he was speechless.  It was terrible to look at him when at length he made his way out of the crowd; his face was livid, his eyes bloodshot, a red slaver covered his lips and beard; you might have taken him for a drunken man, so feebly did his limbs support him, so shattered was he by the fit through which he had passed.

Joseph followed him, and presently walked along at his side.

’That was about as good a speech as I’ve heard for a long time, Mr. Hewett,’ he began by observing.  ’I like to hear a man speak as if he meant it.’

John looked up with a leaden, rheumy eye, but the compliment pleased him, and in a moment he smiled vacantly.

‘I haven’t said my last word yet,’ he replied, with difficulty making himself audible through his hoarseness.

’It takes it out of you, I’m afraid.  Suppose we have a drop of something at the corner here?’

’I don’t mind, Mr. Snowdon.  I thought of looking in at my club for a quarter of an hour; perhaps you’d come round with me afterwards?’