Always somebody wanted to be seen,
when we have dead folks to get rid of," mutters the old man,
querulously, then looking inquiringly at the visitors. Tom says they
would like to go over the premises. "Yes--know you would. Ain't so dull
but I can see what folks want when they look in here." The old man, his
countenance wearing an expression of stupidity, runs his dingy fingers
over the crown of his bald head, and seems questioning within himself
whether to admit them. "I'm not in a very good humor to-day," he rather
growls than speaks, "but you can come in--I'm of a good family--and I'll
call Glentworthy. I'm old--I can't get about much. We'll all get old."
The building seems in a very bad temper generally.

Mr. Glentworthy is called. Mr. Glentworthy, with a profane expletive,
pops his head out at the top of the stairs, and inquires who wants him.
The visitors have advanced into a little, narrow passage, lumbered with
all sorts of rubbish, and swarming with flies. Mr. Saddlerock (for this
is the old man's name) seems in a declining mood, the building seems in
a declining mood, Mr. Glentworthy seems in a declining mood--everything
you look at seems in a declining mood. "As if I hadn't enough to do,
gettin' off this dead cribber!" interpolates Mr. Glentworthy,
withdrawing his wicked face, and taking himself back into a room on the
left.

"He's not so bad a man, only it doesn't come out at first," pursues Mr.
Saddlerock, continuing to rub his head, and to fuss round on his toes.
His mind, Madame Montford verily believes stuck in a fog. "We must wait
a bit," says the old man, his face seeming to elongate. "You can look
about--there's not much to be seen, and what there is--well, it's not
the finest." Mr. Saddlerock shuffles his feet, and then shuffles himself
into a small side room. Through the building there breathes a warm,
sickly atmosphere; the effect has left its marks upon the sad, waning
countenances of its unfortunate inmates.

Tom and Madame Montford set out to explore the establishment. They
enter room after room, find them small, dark, and filthy beyond
description. Some are crowded with half-naked, flabby females, whose
careworn faces, and well-starved aspect, tells a sorrowful tale of the
chivalry. An abundant supply of profane works, in yellow and red covers,
would indeed seem to have been substituted for food, which, to the shame
of our commissioners, be it said, is a scarce article here. Cooped up in
anot