They dragged her about half-way to the door, when suddenly Waymark felt the foot he had hold of withdrawn from his grasp, and at once the woman sprang upright.  Then she fell on him, tooth and nail, screaming like some evil beast.  Had not Abraham forthwith come to the rescue, he would have been seriously torn about the face, but just in time the woman’s arms were seized in a giant grip, and she was flung bodily out of the room, falling with a crash upon the landing.  Then from her and the child arose a most terrific uproar of commination; both together yelled such foulness and blasphemy as can only be conceived by those who have made a special study of this vocabulary, and the vituperation of the child was, if anything, richer in quality than the mother’s.  The former, moreover, did not confine herself to words, but all at once sent her clenched fist through every pain of glass in the window, heedless of the fearful cuts she inflicted upon herself, and uttering a wild yell of triumph at each fracture.  Mr. Woodstock was too late to save his property, but he caught up the creature like a doll, and flung her out also on to the landing, then coolly locked the door behind him, put the key in his pocket, and, letting Waymark pass on first, descended the stairs.  The yelling and screeching behind them continued as long as they were in the Court, but it drew no attention from the neighbours, who were far too accustomed to this kind of thing to heed it.

In the last house they had to enter they came upon a man asleep on a bare bedstead.  It was difficult to wake him.  When at length he was aroused, he glared at them for a moment with one blood-shot eye (the other was sightless), looking much like a wild beast which doubts whether to spring or to shrink back.

“Rent, Slimy,” said Mr. Woodstock with more of good humour than usual.

The man pointed to the mantelpiece, where the pieces of money were found to be lying.  Waymark looked round the room.  Besides the bedstead, a table was the only article of furniture, and on it stood a dirty jug and a glass.  Lying about was a strange collection of miscellaneous articles, heaps of rags and dirty paper, bottles, boots, bones.  There were one or two chairs in process of being new-caned; there was a wooden frame for holding glass, such as is carried about by itinerant glaziers, and, finally, there was a knife-grinding instrument, adapted for wheeling about the streets.  The walls were all scribbled over with obscene words and drawings.  On the inside of the door had been fitted two enormous bolts, one above and one below.

“How’s trade, Slimy?” inquired Mr. Woodstock.

“Which trade, Mr. Woodstock?” asked the man in return, in a very husky voice.

“Oh, trade in general.”

“There never was sich times since old Scratch died,” replied Slimy, shaking his head.  “No chance for a honest man.”

“Then you’re in luck.  This is the new collector, d’you see.”