I forget the exact block; but it's one of the old style double-deckers, with rusty fire escapes decorated with beddin' hung out to air, dark hallways that has a perfume a garbage cart would be ashamed of, rickety stairs, plasterin' all gone off the halls, and other usual signs of real estate that the agents squeeze fifteen per cent. out of. You know how it's done, by fixin' the Buildin' and Board of Health inspectors, jammin' from six to ten fam'lies in on a floor, never makin' any repairs, and collectin' weekly rents or servin' dispossess notices prompt when they don't pay up. Lovely place to hang up one of the "Home, Sweet Home" mottoes! There's a water tap in every hall, so all the tenants can have as much as they want, stove holes in most of the rooms, and you buy your coal by the bucket at the rate of about fourteen dollars a ton. Only three a week for a room, twelve dollars a month. Course, that's more per room than you'd pay on the upper West Side with steam heat, elevator service, and a Tennessee marble entrance hall thrown in; but the luxury of stowin' a whole fam'ly into one room comes high. Or maybe the landlords are doin' it to discourage poverty. "This is where the Tiscotts hang out, is it?" says I. "Shall I lug the basket for you, Miss Colliver?" "Dear no!" says she. "I never go into such places. I always send the things in by Hutchins. He will bring Mrs. Tiscott down and she will tell us about her troubles." "Let Hutchins sit on the box this time," says I, grabbin' up the basket. "Besides, I don't want any second hand report." "But surely," puts in Miss Ann, "you are not going into such a----" "Why not?" says I. "I begun livin' in one just like it." At that Miss Ann settles back under the robe, shrugs her shoulders into her furs, and waves for me to go ahead. Half a dozen kids on the doorstep told me in chorus where I'd find the Tiscotts, and after I've climbed up through four layers of stale cabbage and fried onion smells and felt my way along to the third door left from the top of the stairs, I makes my entrance as the special messenger of the ministerin' angel. It's the usual fam'ly-room tenement scene, such as the slum writers are so fond of describin' with the agony pedal down hard, only there ain't quite so much dirt and rags in evidence as they'd like. There's plenty, though. Also there's a lot of industry on view. Over by the light shaft window is Mrs. Tiscott, pumpin' a sewin' machine like she was entered in a twenty-four-hour endurance race, with a big bundle of raw materials at one side. In front of her is the oldest girl, sewin' buttons onto white goods; while the three younger kids, includin' the four-year-old boy, are spread out around the table in the middle of the room, pickin' nut meat into the dishpan.