“I never do lock my door, except when I’m gwine to bed; but I guess I’ll do it now, fear of accidents. Though nobody’ll never guess nothing ’bout the fortin as I’ve got locked up in there. Lor’, no! They’ll only think, if any on ’em come and try my door, as I’ve turned in airlier, and some on ’em liars’ll say drunker nor usual. They’ll never think of the fortin. Lor’, no! If they did, it wouldn’t be there long. Lor’, no! So I reckon as I had better hurry and get back’s soon as I can, anyhow,” she concluded, as she went down the stairs, dark or only dimly lighted by the gleam of candles, or kerosene lamps, from the partly open doors of the tenement rooms. She passed downstairs without being questioned, or even observed, until she reached the front door, where a woman sat on the steps, smoking a short, clay pipe. “Umphe—humphe! There’s Kit, as us’al, filling up the door,” muttered the ragpicker, as she came upon the smoker. The latter took the pipe from between her lips, looked up, and said: “Evenin’! What’s that you’ve got there, Muck?” calling the crone by the nickname that had been given her in recognition of her pre-eminent attainments in squalor. At any other time the Malebolge of her poor, obscene and profane soul would have been turned upon the questioner and deluged her with abuse. But it was now her cue to be conciliating. “Oh, jest one of my Soph’s young uns as has been spending of the hevening and taking tea along of me. And I’m a-carrying of her home to her mammy,” she answered, quite civilly. “I ain’t seen Soph since she come from the island. Where is she now?” inquired the younger woman. “Got a room in Rose Street.” “Bloomin’ Rose Street that one is. He-he! Where is Soph’s man?” “W’ere he ought to be. W’ere I ’ope he’ll stay.” “Sent up?” “Yes.” “Drinking?” “Yes, and beating of his wife. Wish I’d caught him at it. Better not let me catch him when he comes out, either. There’ll be a foot race or a fun’al. More like the fun’al. And me sent furder up nor him, I reckon—for manslaughter it mought be, and serve him right. But, here! Let me pass. It’s arfter nine, and I want to get along with Soph’s kid, ’fear she’ll be oneasy ’bout her. ’Cause, yer see, she don’ know w’ere she is. I picked her up in the streets, and fetched her home to take tea ’long of me,” the ragpicker explained. “Oh! to take tea long of you?” Kit questioned, with a dry laugh. “Yes, why not?” demanded the crone. “Oh, nothing. Only I was wondering what stood for tea, and what on earth it was made in and drunk out of. That’s all.” The ragpicker would have liked to strangle the young woman then and there, but she dared not even quarrel with her, so she answered, with a forced laugh: “Oh, yer will have your jokes, Kit. Well, to be sure the tea were only a bottle of ginger beer, drunk outen the bottle, and a bun eat outen the hand. I forgive yer yer little joke, Kit, my lass. But I haven’t got time to stop now. I must take the child home.”