"Would you give us a week's money or notice, sir?" he said now in his shaking voice.
"Did I take you on by the week?" asked Alf ferociously.
"No, sir; by the day."
"Then what ye talking about?—Ain't I paid you up?"
"You paid us up, sir. Only we got to live."
"Very well then. There's the House at the top of the hill for such as you. Ain't that good enough? This is a Christian country, this is."
Alf was half-way up the steps to his office, and he pointed in the direction of the Work-house.
A curious tawny glow lit the old man's eyes. His lips closed over his gums.
"Bloody Bastille," he muttered.
Alf heard him and ran down the steps. He was still with the stillness of the born bully.