“Rooter, sir; Margaret Rooter, at your honor’s service; born in lawful wedlock of honest parients, your worship, and christened in this very same church as you see before you, Sim-Merrily-Strand,[1] sir, as ever was.” Footnote 1: St. Mary’s le Strand. “Well, Mother Rooter,” said the poor gentleman, dropping his voice to a low tone, “would you do a service for me, if it should be to your own advantage?” “Is it would I do a service for your honor’s worship?” said the woman, gazing on the coin in her hand and chuckling, for she readily divined that the required service was an unlawful one, which must be paid for handsomely “on the nail,” and ever afterwards in the shape of of blackmail. “And is it Margaret Rooter as you ask will she do that service for her binnyfactor, as he has kept her from starving this many a day? Aye, will I, even if it is to the setting on fire of Northumberland House, or Sim-Merrily-Strand itself. Marry come up indeed! What has Northumberland House, or Sim-Merrily-Strand either, ever done for the likes of me, that I should prefer them before your honor’s worship, whose bounty have given me many a half ounce of tea and handful of coal? Sim-Merrily-Strand indeed!” “But I have no grudge against the church, or the palace either, and wish them no harm, but all good. The service I require of you is of another sort, but almost equally dangerous and needing——” “I don’t care a pen’orth of gin what it needs, nor what it don’t, no, nor yet for the danger, so as it ain’t killing and hanging matter. I never could pluck up courage to take a life or to risk the gallows. But as for the rest—look here, your honor! what has the likes of a poor creature like me to be afraid of in this world? Is it the police? Is it the judge? Is it the jail? Lord love your honor, the police treat me better nor my own brothers, for they never punch my head, nor give me black eyes! and the judge is a gentleman compared to my landlord, for he never turned me out into the street, as every one of them is sure to do sooner or later. And as for the prison, it is a perfect queen’s palace, compared to the leaky, crowded, filthy garret where I stop. Your honor must know I have been in both and know the differ! So as I was taking the liberty to tell your honor, if the service is anything less than a hanging matter, I’m your woman.” “Speak lower when you do speak; but do not speak at all when people are passing by,” said Everage, in a very low tone, as some street passengers hurried along. “There, your honor, they have gone now. Now about this service, your honor?” said the old woman, impatiently. “Well, it is no hanging matter, nor anything of the sort But it is a secret service for all that,” replied Everage.