Later still in the night, we came (by the court ‘where the man was murdered,’ and by the other court across the street, into which his body was dragged) to another parlour in another Entry, where several people were sitting round a fire in just the same way. It was a dirty and offensive place, with some ragged clothes drying in it; but there was a high shelf over the entrance-door (to be out of the reach of marauding hands, possibly) with two large white loaves on it, and a great piece of Cheshire cheese. ‘Well!’ says Mr. Superintendent, with a comprehensive look all round. ‘How do _you_ do?’ ‘Not much to boast of, sir.’ From the curtseying woman of the house. ‘This is my good man, sir.’ ‘You are not registered as a common Lodging House?’ ‘No, sir.’ Sharpeye (in the Move-on tone) puts in the pertinent inquiry, ‘Then why ain’t you?’ ‘Ain’t got no one here, Mr. Sharpeye,’ rejoin the woman and my good man together, ‘but our own family.’ ‘How many are you in family?’ The woman takes time to count, under pretence of coughing, and adds, as one scant of breath, ‘Seven, sir.’ But she has missed one, so Sharpeye, who knows all about it, says: ‘Here’s a young man here makes eight, who ain’t of your family?’ ‘No, Mr. Sharpeye, he’s a weekly lodger.’ ‘What does he do for a living?’ The young man here, takes the reply upon himself, and shortly answers, ‘Ain’t got nothing to do.’ The young man here, is modestly brooding behind a damp apron pendent from a clothes-line. As I glance at him I become—but I don’t know why—vaguely reminded of Woolwich, Chatham, Portsmouth, and Dover. When we get out, my respected fellow-constable Sharpeye, addressing Mr. Superintendent, says: ‘You noticed that young man, sir, in at Darby’s?’ ‘Yes. What is he?’ ‘Deserter, sir.’ Mr. Sharpeye further intimates that when we have done with his services, he will step back and take that young man. Which in course of time he does: feeling at perfect ease about finding him, and knowing for a moral certainty that nobody in that region will be gone to bed. Later still in the night, we came to another parlour up a step or two from the street, which was very cleanly, neatly, even tastefully, kept, and in which, set forth on a draped chest of drawers masking the staircase, was such a profusion of ornamental crockery, that it would have furnished forth a handsome sale-booth at a fair. It backed up a stout old lady—HOGARTH drew her exact likeness more than once—and a boy who was carefully writing a copy in a copy-book. ‘Well, ma’am, how do _you_ do?’ Sweetly, she can assure the dear gentlemen, sweetly. Charmingly, charmingly. And overjoyed to see us! ‘Why, this is a strange time for this boy to be writing his copy. In the middle of the night!’