He was a man of gigantic stature, probably considerably over six feet high, but so broad in proportion that he seemed shorter than he actually was. A long waterproof, from which the rain was trickling in little streams, reached to his feet; the hood was drawn over his head, and under its shadow was seen a face which was excellently adapted to the enormous frame. A huge black beard streamed over the stranger's breast, and a pair of large black eyes looked out from overhanging brows. He was the first to break the silence. "Well, what is this little argument?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued, addressing Mr. Huffham, "You're rather a large size, don't you think, for that sized boy?" "Who are you? and what do you want? If there's anything you want to buy, perhaps you'll buy it, and take yourself outside." The stranger put his hand up to his beard, and began pulling it. "There's nothing I want to buy, not just now." He looked at Bailey. "What's he laying it on for?" "Nothing." "That's not bad, considering. What were you laying it on for?" This to Huffham. "I've not finished yet, not by no manner of means; I mean to take it out of all the lot of 'em. Call themselves gents! Why, if a working-man's son was to behave as they does, he'd get five years at a reformatory. I've known it done before today." "I daresay you have; you look like a man who knew a thing or two. What were you laying it on for?" "What for? why, look here!" And Mr. Huffham pointed to the broken bottles and the damaged case. "And I'm a hard-working woman, I am, sir, and I'm seventy-three this next July; and it's hard work I find it to pay my rent: and wherever I'm to get the money for them there things, goodness knows, I don't. It'll be the workhouse, after all!" Thus Mrs. Huffham lifted up her voice and wept. "And they calls themselves gents, and they comes in here, and takes advantage of an old woman, and robs her right and left, and thinks they're going to get off scot free; not if I know it this time they won't." Mr. Stephen Huffham looked as though he meant it, every word. "Did you do that?" asked the stranger of Bailey. "No, I didn't." "I don't care who did it; they're that there liars I wouldn't believe a word of theirs on oath; they did it between them, and that's quite enough for me." "I suppose one of you did do it?" asked the stranger. Bailey thrust his hands in his pockets, looking up at the stranger with the dogged look in his eyes. "The place was pitch dark; why didn't they have a light in the place?" "Because there didn't happen to be a light in the place, is that any reason why you should go smashing everything you could lay your hands on? Why couldn't you wait for a light? Go on with you! I'll take the skin off your back!" "How much?" asked the stranger, paying no attention to Mr. Stephen's eloquence. "There's a heap of mischief done, heap of mischief!" wailed the old lady in the rear.