"'Well, if yer won't stand a pot,' quoth the tall man, 'I will, that's all, and blow temperance. 'A short life and a merry one,' says the tailor— The ministers talk a great deal about port, And they makes Cape wine very dear, But blow their hi's if ever they tries To deprive a poor cove of his beer. Here, Sam, run to the Cock and Bottle for a pot of half-and-half to my score.' "A thin, pale lad jumped up and vanished, while my tormentor turned to me: "I say, young 'un, do you know why we're nearer heaven here than our neighbours?' "'I shouldn't have thought so,' answered I with a _naïveté_ which raised a laugh, and dashed the tall man for a moment. "'Yer don't? then I'll tell yer. Acause we're atop of the house in the first place, and next place yer'll die here six months sooner nor if yer worked in the room below. A'n't that logic and science, Orator?' appealing to Crossthwaite. "'Why?' asked I. "'Acause you get all the other floors' stinks up here, as well as your own. Concentrated essence of man's flesh, is this here as you're a-breathing. Cellar work-room we calls Rheumatic Ward, because of the damp. Ground-floor's, Fever Ward—them as don't get typhus gets dysentery, and them as don't get dysentery gets typhus—your nose 'd tell yer why if you opened the back windy. First floor's Ashmy Ward—don't you hear 'um now through the cracks in the boards, a-puffing away like a nest of young locomotives? And this here more august and upper-crust cockloft is the Conscrumptive Hospital. First you begins to cough, then you proceed to expectorate—spittoons, as you see, perwided free gracious for nothing—fined a kivarten if you spits on the floor— Then your cheeks they grow red, and your nose it grows thin, And your bones they sticks out, till they comes through your skin: and then, when you've sufficiently covered the poor dear shivering bare backs of the hairystocracy, Die, die, die, Away you fly, Your soul is in the sky! as the hinspired Shakspeare wittily remarks.' "And the ribald lay down on his back, stretched himself out, and pretended to die in a fit of coughing, which last was alas! no counterfeit, while poor I, shocked and bewildered, let my tears fall fast upon my knees. "'Fine him a pot!' roared one, 'for talking about kicking the bucket. He's a nice young man to keep a cove's spirits up, and talk about "a short life and a merry one." Here comes the heavy. Hand it here to take the taste of that fellow's talk out of my mouth.' "'Well, my young 'un,' recommenced my tormentor, 'and how do you like your company?' "'Leave the boy alone,' growled Crossthwaite: 'don't you see he's crying?'