Then he snored--horribly; his snore seemed a portent of disaster. Sophia approached him as though he were a bomb, and stared, growing bolder, into his mouth. "Oh, Con," she summoned her sister, "do come and look! It's too droll!" In an instant all their four eyes were exploring the singular landscape of Mr. Povey's mouth. In a corner, to the right of that interior, was one sizeable fragment of a tooth, that was attached to Mr. Povey by the slenderest tie, so that at each respiration of Mr. Povey, when his body slightly heaved and the gale moaned in the cavern, this tooth moved separately, showing that its long connection with Mr. Povey was drawing to a close. "That's the one," said Sophia, pointing. "And it's as loose as anything. Did you ever see such a funny thing?" The extreme funniness of the thing had lulled in Sophia the fear of Mr. Povey's sudden death. "I'll see how much he's taken," said Constance, preoccupied, going to the mantelpiece. "Why, I do believe--" Sophia began, and then stopped, glancing at the sewing-machine, which stood next to the sofa. It was a Howe sewing-machine. It had a little tool-drawer, and in the tool-drawer was a small pair of pliers. Constance, engaged in sniffing at the lees of the potion in order to estimate its probable deadliness, heard the well-known click of the little tool-drawer, and then she saw Sophia nearing Mr. Povey's mouth with the pliers. "Sophia!" she exclaimed, aghast. "What in the name of goodness are you doing?" "Nothing," said Sophia. The next instant Mr. Povey sprang up out of his laudanum dream. "It jumps!" he muttered; and, after a reflective pause, "but it's much better." He had at any rate escaped death. Sophia's right hand was behind her back. Just then a hawker passed down King Street, crying mussels and cockles. "Oh!" Sophia almost shrieked. "Do let's have mussels and cockles for tea!" And she rushed to the door, and unlocked and opened it, regardless of the risk of draughts to Mr. Povey. In those days people often depended upon the caprices of hawkers for the tastiness of their teas; but it was an adventurous age, when errant knights of commerce were numerous and enterprising. You went on to your doorstep, caught your meal as it passed, withdrew, cooked it and ate it, quite in the manner of the early Briton. Constance was obliged to join her sister on the top step. Sophia descended to the second step. "Fresh mussels and cockles all alive oh!" bawled the hawker, looking across the road in the April breeze. He was the celebrated Hollins, a professional Irish drunkard, aged in iniquity, who cheerfully saluted magistrates in the street, and referred to the workhouse, which he occasionally visited, as the Bastile. Sophia was trembling from head to foot. "What ARE you laughing at, you silly thing?" Constance demanded.