“Well, lead on; hold up the lantern. A devil of a dark place this!” grumbled Jason, as he nearly stumbled over sundry broken chattels, and gained a flight of rude, black, broken stairs, that creaked under his tread.
“‘St! ‘st!” said Beck between his teeth, as the stranger, halting at the second floor, demanded, in no gentle tones, whether Mr. Grabman lived in the chimney-pots.
“‘St! ‘st! Don’t make such a rumpus, or No. 7 will be at you.”
“What do I care for No. 7? And who the devil is No. 7?”
“A body-snatcher!” whispered Beck, with a shudder. “He’s a dillicut sleeper,—can’t abide having his night’s rest sp’ilt. And he’s the houtrageoustest great cretur when he’s h-up in his tantrums; it makes your ‘air stand on ind to ‘ear him!”
“I should like very much to hear him, then,” said the stranger, curiously. And while he spoke, the door of No. 7 opened abruptly. A huge head, covered with matted hair, was thrust for a moment through the aperture, and two dull eyes, that seemed covered with a film like that of the birds which feed on the dead, met the stranger’s bold, sparkling orbs.
“Hell and fury!” bawled out the voice of this ogre, like a clap of near thunder, “if you two keep tramp, tramp, there close at my door, I’ll make you meat for the surgeons, b—— you!”
“Stop a moment, my civil friend,” said the stranger, advancing; “just stand where you are: I should like to make a sketch of your head.”
That head protruded farther from the door, and with it an enormous bulk of chest and shoulder. But the adventurous visitor was not to be daunted. He took out, very coolly, a pencil and the back of a letter, and began his sketch.
The body-snatcher stared at him an instant in mute astonishment; but that operation and the composure of the artist were so new to him that they actually inspired him with terror. He slunk back, banged to the door; and the stranger, putting up his implements, said, with a disdainful laugh, to Beck, who had slunk away into a corner,—