light, and crowded with
savage-faced figures, of various ages and colors,--all habited in the
poison-seller's uniform of rags. "I don't think you'll find him here,
sir," says one, addressing the other, who is tall and slender of person,
and singularly timid. "God knows I am a stranger here. To-morrow I leave
for Antioch," is the reply, delivered in nervous accents. The one is
Brother Syngleton Spyke, the other Mr. Detective Fitzgerald, a man of
more than middle stature, with compact figure, firmly-knit limbs, and an
expression of countenance rather pleasant.

"You see, sir, this Toddleworth is a harmless creature, always aims to
be obliging and civil. I don't, sir--I really don't think he'll steal.
But one can't tell what a man will do who is driven to such straits as
the poor devils here are. We rather like Toddleworth at the station,
look upon him as rather wanting in the head, and for that reason rather
incline to favor him. I may say we now and then let him 'tie up' all
night in the station. And for this he seems very thankful. I may say,"
continues Mr. Fitzgerald, touching the visor of his cap, "that he always
repays with kindness any little attention we may extend to him at the
station, and at times seems too anxious to make it his home. We give him
a shirt and a few shillings now and then; and when we want to be rid of
him we begin to talk about fashionable wives. He is sure to go then.
Can't stand such a topic, I assure you, sir, and is sure to go off in a
huff when Sergeant Pottle starts it."

They enter the great door of the bottomless pit; the young missionary
hesitates. His countenance changes, his eyes scan steadily over the
scene. A room some sixty feet by twenty opens to his astonished eyes.
Its black, boarded walls, and bare beams, are enlivened here and there
with extravagant pictures of notorious pugilists, show-bills, and
illustrated advertisements of lascivious books, in which the murder of
an unfortunate woman is the principal feature. Slippery mud covers the
floor. Mr. Krone sits on an empty whiskey-barrel, his stunted features
betraying the hardened avarice of his character. He smokes his black
pipe, folds his arms deliberately, discoursing of the affairs of the
nation to two stupefied negroes and one blear-eyed son of the Emerald
Isle. Three uncouth females, with hair hanging matted over their faces,
and their features hidden in distortion, stand cooling their bared limbs
at a running faucet ju