Lying about was a strange collection of miscellaneous articles, heaps of rags and dirty paper, bottles, boots, bones.

There were one or two chairs in process of being new-caned; there was a wooden frame for holding glass, such as is carried about by itinerant glaziers, and, finally, there was a knife-grinding instrument, adapted for wheeling about the streets.

The walls were all scribbled over with obscene words and drawings.

On the inside of the door had been fitted two enormous bolts, one above and one below.
"How's trade, Slimy ?" inquired Mr.Woodstock.
"Which trade, Mr.Woodstock ?" asked the man in return, in a very husky voice.
"Oh, trade in general." "There never was sich times since old Scratch died," replied Slimy, shaking his head.

"No chance for a honest man." "Then you're in luck.