She dashed it to the floor.

“You won’t go away?—­There goes one of you dishes!—­and there goes a basin!—­And there goes a tea-cup!”

One after another, the things she named perished upon the floor.  Mrs. Cross stood paralysed, horror-stricken.

“You think you’ll make me pay for them?” cried Martha frantically.  “Not me—­not me!  It’s you as owes me money—­money for all the work I’ve done as wasn’t in my wages, and for the food as I haven’t had, when I’d ought to.  What do you call that?” She pointed to a plate of something on the kitchen table.  “Is that a dinner for a human being, or is it a dinner for a beetle?  D’you think I’d eat it, and me with money in my pocket to buy better?  You want to make a walkin’ skeleton of me, do you?—­but I’ll have it out of you, I will—­There goes another dish!  And here goes a sugar-basin!  And here goes your teapot!”

With a shriek of dismay, Mrs. Cross sprang forward.  She was too late to save the cherished object, and her aggressive movement excited Martha to yet more alarming behaviour.

“You’d hit me, would you?  Two can play at that game—­you old skinflint, you!  Come another step nearer, and I’ll bring this poker on your head!  You thought you’d get somebody you could do as you liked with, didn’t you?  You thought because I was willing, and tried to do my best, as I could be put upon to any extent, did you?  It’s about time you learnt your mistake, you old cheese-parer!  You and me has an account to settle.  Let me get at you—­let me get at you—­”

She brandished the poker so menacingly that Mrs. Cross turned and fled.  Martha pursued, yelling abuse and threats.  The mistress vainly tried to shut the sitting-room door against her; in broke the furious maid, and for a moment so handled her weapon that Mrs. Cross with difficulty escaped a dangerous blow.  Round and round the table they went, until, the cloth having been dragged off, Martha’s feet caught in it, and she fell heavily to the floor.  To escape from the room, the terrified lady must have stepped over her.  For a moment there was silence.  Then Martha made an attempt to rise, fell again, again struggled to her knees, and finally collapsed, lying quite still and mute.

Trembling, panting, Mrs. Cross moved cautiously nearer, until she could see the girl’s face.  Martha was asleep, unmistakably asleep; she had even begun to snore.  Avoiding her contact with as much disgust as fear, Mrs. Cross got out of the room, and opened the front door of the house.  This way and that she looked along the streets, searching for a policeman, but none was in sight.  At this moment, approached a familiar figure, Mr. Jollyman’s errand boy, basket on arm; he had parcels to deliver here.

“Are you going back to the shop at once?” asked Mrs. Cross, after hurriedly setting down her groceries in the passage.

“Straight back, mum.”

“Then run as quickly as ever you can, and tell Mr. Jollyman that I wish to see him immediately—­immediately.  Run!  Don’t lose a moment!”