These rooms were all reached by a staircase ascending from a narrow hall entered by a separate street-door adjoining that of the office.

The door and staircase were convenient for the lodger wishing to stumble up to bed without disturbing his hosts--an event, however, that seldom happened, as Kitty was generally the last person awake in her house.
The horses, as has been said, were kept in the livery-stable next door--the brown mare, a recent purchase, and the old white horse, Jim, the pride of Kitty's heart, in a special stall.

The wagons were either backed in the shed in the rear or left overnight close to the curb, with chains on the hind wheels.

This was contrary to regulations, and would have been so considered but for the fact that the captain of the precinct often got his coffee in Kitty's back kitchen, as did Tom McGinniss, the big policeman, whose beat reached nearly to the tunnel, both men soothing their consciences with the argument that Kitty's job lasted so late and began so early, sometimes a couple of hours or so before daylight, that it was not worth while to bother about her wagons, when everybody else was in bed, or ought to be.
She was smoothing old Jim's neck, crooning over him, talking to him in her motherly way, telling him what a ruffian he was and how ashamed she was of him for getting the hair worn off under his collar, and he a horse old enough to know better, Bobby's "Toodles," an animated doormat of a dog, sniffing at her skirt, when Otto and his friend hove in sight.
"The top of the mornin' to ye, Otto Kling, and ye never see a better and a finer.

And what can I do for ye ?--for ye wouldn't be lavin' them gimcracks of yours this time O'day unless there was somethin' up." "No, I don't got nudding you can do for me, Kitty.