We had reached the door of a low habitation in a secluded street. The house was of wood--an ordinary hovel of two stories. A cluster of similar fabrics surrounded it, most of which I afterward discovered--though this fact could not be conjectured by an observer from the street--were connected by blind alleys, inner courts, and chambers and passages running along the ground floors. We stopped an instant, Kingsley having his hand upon the little iron knocker, a single black ring, that worked against an ordinary iron knob. “Before I knock,” said he, in a whisper, “before I knock, Clifford, let me say that if you have any reluctance--” “None! none! knock!” “You will meet with some dirty rascals, and you must not only meet them with seeming civility, but as if you shared in their tastes--sought the same objects only--the getting of money--the only object which alone is clearly comprehensible by their understanding.” “Go ahead! I will see you through.” “A word more! Get yourself in play at a different table from me. You will find rogues enough around, ready to relieve you of your Mexicans. Leave me to my particular enemy; you will soon see whose shield I touch--but keep an occasional eye upon us; and all that I ask farther at your hands, should you see us by the ears, is to keep other fingers from taking hold of mine.” A heavy stroke of the knocker, followed by three light ones and a second heavy stroke, produced us an answer from within. The door unclosed, and by the light of a dim lamp, I discovered before me, as a sort of warden, a little yellow, weather-beaten, skin-dried Frenchman, whom I had frequently before seen at a fruit-shop in another part of the city. He looked at me, however, without any sign of recognition--with a blank, dull, indifferent countenance; motioned us forward in silence, and reclosing the door, sunk into a chair immediately behind it. I followed my companion through a passage which was unfathomably dark, up a flight of stairs, which led us into a sort of refreshment room. Tables were spread, with decanters, glasses, and tumblers upon them, that appeared to be in continual use. In a recess, stood that evil convenience of most American establishments, whether on land or sea, a liquor bar; its shelves crowded with bottles, all of which seemed amply full, and ready to complete the overthrow of the victim, which the other appliances of such a dwelling must already have actively begun. “Here you may take in the Dutch courage, Clifford, should you lack the native. This, I know, is not the case with you, and yet the novelty of one's situation frequently overcomes a sensitive mind like fear. Perhaps a julep may be of use.” “None for me. I need no farther stimulant than the mere sense of movement. I take fire, like a wheel, by my own progress.”