"What?" gasped old Jack--for to tell a landlord to get out of his own
house!... "What?"
"Why git out? Y' ought to know better than comin' 'ere askin' for money
you ain't earnt."
"Ain't earnt? What d'ye mean?"
"What I say. Y' ain't earnt it. It's you blasted lan'lords as sucks the
blood o' the workers. You go an' work for your money."
Old Jack was confounded. "Why--what--how d'ye think I can pay the rates,
an' everythink?"
"I don't care. You'll _'ave_ to pay 'em, an' I wish they was 'igher.
They ought to be the same as the rent, an' that 'ud do away with fellers
like you. Go on: you do your damdest an' get your rent best way you
can."
"But what about upstairs? You're lettin' it out an' takin' the rent
there. I--"
"That's none o' your business. Git out, will ye?" They had gradually
worked over the doorstep, and Randall was on the pavement. "I sha'n't
pay, an' I sha'n't go, an' ye can do what ye like; so it's no good your
stoppin'--unless you want to fight. Eh--do ye?" And Mr. Parsons put a
foot over the threshold.
Old Jack had not fought for many years. It was low. For a landlord
outside his own house it was, indeed, disgraceful. But it was quite dark
now, and there was scarcely a soul in the street. Perhaps nobody would
know, and this man deserved something for himself. He looked up the
street again, and then, "Well, I ain't so young as I was," he said, "but
I won't disappoint ye. Come on."
Mr. Joe Parsons stepped within and slammed the door.