"What's _this_?" he soliloquizes, lifting a huge bundle and scrutinizing it carefully. "Ah-h! a gentleman's fine overcoat; _that_ must have a nice, safe corner. Ah-h! there you go," lowering the bundle down the aperture and poking it into position with his stick. "It's amazin' what valuables my people finds about the streets," he chuckles facetiously. "'Ere's a--a little silver tea-pot; some rich woman must a-throwed that out. I will put it on the shelf." Evidently the shelf mentioned is in the cellar below, for this parcel, like the first, is lowered and carefully placed by means of the stick. Other bundles of various sizes follow, and then the old man rests from his labor. "What a nice little hole that is," he mutters. "Full of rags--nothin' else. Suppose a cop comes in here and looks down, what 'ud he see? Just rags. S'pose he went down, ha! ha! he'd go waist-deep in a bed of old rags, and he wouldn't like the smell overmuch; such a _nice_ smell--for cops. He couldn't _see_ anything, couldn't _feel_ anything but rags, just rags." A low tap at the street-door causes the old man to drop his stick and his soliloquy at once. He starts nervously, listens intently for a moment, and then rises cautiously. A long, low whistle evidently reassures him, for with suddenly acquired self-possession he begins to move about. Swiftly and noiselessly he closes the trap, spreads down the bit of carpet, and replaces the table. Then he shuffles toward the entrance, pulls out the pin from the hole in the door, and peeps out. Nothing is visible but the darkness, and this, somehow; seems to reassure him, for with a snort of impatience he calls out: "Who knocks?" "It's Siebel," replies a voice from without. "Open up, old Top." Instantly the door is unbarred and swung open, admitting a burly ruffian, who fairly staggers under the weight of a monstrous sack which he carries upon his shoulders. At sight of this bulky burden the old man smiles and rubs his palms together. "Ah! Josef," he says, reaching out to relieve the new-comer, "a nice load that; a very nice load!" But the man addressed as Josef retains his hold upon his burden, and, resting himself against it, looks distrustfully at his host. "It's been a fine evening, Josef," insinuates the old man, his eyes still fixed upon the bag. "Fair enough," replies Josef gruffly, as he unties the bag and pushes it toward the old man. "Take a look at the stuff, Papa Francoise, and make a bid. I'm dead thirsty." Eagerly seizing the bag, Papa Francoise drags it toward the table, closely followed by Josef, and begins a hasty examination of its contents, saying: "Rags is rags, you know, Josef Siebel. It's not much use to look into 'em; there's nothing here but rags, of course." "No, course not," with a satirical laugh. "That's right, Josef; I won't buy nothing but rags,--_never_. I don't want no ill-gotten gains brought to me."