They are, in his
opinion, a gang of criminals for whom no punishment could be too
severe, because they impose upon the public in general and Higgins in
particular, by continuing in business as if they were in a position to
let houses when, as a matter of fact, there are no houses for them to
let.
Higgins wants a house. Yes, incredible though it may sound, this man,
who for years has been content to dwell in a dug-out or consort with
creeping things in the confines of a canvas tent, and even on occasion
make his bed beneath the starry dome of heaven, with nothing in
between, has now developed a craving for a residence built of bricks
and mortar.
What is more, he expects the house-agents to find it for him, and,
since he considers the whole thing from the purely personal point of
view, their excuses for failing to do so are of no avail. The fact
that half a million other people want houses is nothing to him. He
ignores it. He believes that the house-agentry of the country has
hatched a gigantic conspiracy to keep him, Higgins, out of a home.
I have done _my_ best to put him out of his misery. After seeing the
poor wretch wear himself (and his boots) out in useless journeying to
and from the places where house-agents pretend to work I thought of a
scheme--not strictly original--for obtaining a house and presented it
to him without hope of reward.
"You are committing and error," I said.
"I shall commit a murder in a minute," he growled but, knowing what he
had suffered, I took no notice of the threat.
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