John Gaffekin banged violently at the door and shouted: "Mr Price! Mr Price!"
"Eh, what's up the deuce and all?" came a loud but sleepy voice from the first floor. A match was struck, a light glimmered through the bars, the shutters creaked open and old Mr Price popped his nightcap out of the window.
"News from your son," cried the Poet cheerfully.
"Eh, is that anything to jump a man up for in the dead o' night?" retorted the old man, cursing under his breath. "I was feared of a smoky black beggaring fire at the least, I was. What the devil do I care about the young rip? He owes me a hundred pound, he do, and I wrote him, but he never sent back a penny nor a post-card."
"You're a nice, pretty father," exclaimed the Poet. "I've got your hundred in my pocket."
"I'll come down to you and Mr Gaffekin," said William Price very civilly.
"No you won't," retorted the Poet, "you should have come down before. You'll stay right where you are and answer me some questions I have in my head to ask you. And if you budge from that window you sha'n't have a groat nor a tizzy of all your hundred pounds."
"It's cold-here," grumbled Mr Price, churlishly, flapping his arms across his chest. "What d'yer want to know?"
"Why, first of all, tell me why you never go out of nights?" cried the Poet.
"What's that to you?" bawled back the old man.