William walked solemnly through to the kitchen where Jonas was sitting by the window in a great arm-chair. A weird-looking figure he was, muffled in an old overcoat, though it was summer and the day was warm. A growth of untrimmed whiskers through which peered crafty eyes, and a mass of long matted hair topping a big head, gave an uncanny appearance to the man, who was a helpless cripple through rheumatism. He glared at William, who cordially expressed the hope that he was feeling a little better.
"Is that what she let you in for?" he demanded fiercely.
"Well, I didn't just put it to her in that way, if you mean your daughter," said William calmly. "I'm after some money, to tell you the truth."
"Money!" the old man shrieked the word.
"You heard me first time," returned William politely, "and ain't you glad your sickness don't hinder your hearing some?"
"Money!" shouted the old man again. "Money! What do you want money from me for?"
"The rent," said William calmly—"two months, due to-day. You can read, I believe," and he held before the old man's face two receipts, properly made out for the amounts due. "I see," he said, pointing to an open letter on the window sill, "that you got Mister Whimple's note about it. I'm the coll-ect-or he speaks of."
"You!"
"The same, Mister Jonas."
The man glared at him savagely, and then shouted, "You—you—get t'hades out of this."