It was a small, dingy house of three stories, the front door of which was always open, and the passage strewed with damp, dirty straw.

On the left-hand side as you entered was a sitting-room, or coffee-room as it was announced to be by an appellation painted on the door.

There was but one window to the room, which looked into the street, and was always clouded by a dingy-red curtain.

The floor was uncarpeted, nearly black with dirt, and usually half covered with fragments of damp straw brought into it by the feet of customers.

A strong smell of hot whisky and water always prevailed, and the straggling mahogany table in the centre of the room, whose rickety legs gave way and came off whenever an attempt was made to move it, was covered by small greasy circles, the impressions of the bottoms of tumblers which had been made by the overflowing tipple.