All that Message by Arthur Morrison

Old Jack did the painting, and the new tenant took possession. When Mrs. Randall called for the first week a draggle-tailed little woman with a black eye meekly informed her that Mr. Parsons was not at home, and had left no money nor any message as to the rent. This was awkward, because the first building society instalment would be due before next rent-day -- to say nothing of the rates. But it would never do to offend Mr. Parsons. So the money was scraped together by heroic means (the missis produced an unsuspected twelve and sixpence from a gallipot on the kitchen dresser), and the first instalment was paid.

Mrs. Randall called twice at Mulberry Street next rent-day, but nobody answered her knocks. Old Jack, possessed by a misty notion, born of use, that rent was constitutionally demandable only on Monday morning, called no more for a week. But on Thursday evening a stout little stranger, with a bald head which he wiped continually, came to the Randalls to ask if the tenant of Twenty-seven Mulberry Street was Mr. Joe Parsons. Assured that it was, he nodded, said, "Thanks! that's all," wiped his head again, and started to go. Then he paused, and "Pay his rent regular?" he asked. Old Jack hesitated. "Ah, thought so," said the little stranger. "He's a wrong 'un. _I've_ got a bit o' paper for 'im." And he clapped on his hat with the handkerchief in it and vanished.