'He's the feller to let 'em 'ave it!' Yes, it was John Hewett, much older, much more broken, yet much fiercer than when we last saw him.

Though it was evident that he spoke often at these meetings, he had no command of his voice and no coherence of style; after the first few words he seemed to be overcome by rage that was little short of frenzy.

Inarticulate screams and yells interrupted the torrent of his invective; he raised both hands above his head and clenched them in a gesture of frantic passion; his visage was frightfully distorted, and in a few minutes there actually fell drops of blood from his bitten lip.

Rent!--it was a subject on which the poor fellow could speak to some purpose.

What was the root of the difficulty a London workman found in making both ends meet?
Wasn't it that accursed law by which the owner of property can make him pay a half, and often more, of his earnings or permission to put his wife and children under a roof?
And what sort of dwellings were they, these in which the men who made the wealth of the country were born and lived and died?
What would happen to the landlords of Clerkenwell if they got their due?
Ay, what _shall_ happen, my boys, and that before so very long?
For fifteen or twenty minutes John expended his fury, until, in fact, he was speechless.