They stared at him for a minute without replying, and then all burst out laughing, while one woman called to some one within the passage:
“Hallo, Meg, come here! Here’s a gentleman a-wanting of Mistress Rooter. He have come with the queen’s compliments to her.”
A brown-skinned, black-haired, bare-legged gipsy of about fourteen years old came out of the obscurity, and accosted Everage.
“Be thou the gentleman as grannam was a-looking for?”
“If your grandam is Mrs. Rooter,—yes,” answered Everage scrutinizing the girl, and recognizing her from the description given by the crone.
“Come along then,” said Meg, leading the way through passages and up staircases more foul and nauseating to sight and smell than even the middle of the streets had been—for the streets do sometimes get washed off by rain, whereas these tenement-house passages seem never to have that advantage.
Everage followed his guide up four flights of stairs, noticing, as he passed along the halls of each floor, through the open or half-open doors, heart-sickening and revolting sights of vice and misery within the room.
At the top of the last flight of stairs himself and his young guide reached the attic landing.
She beckoned and led him to a door, which she opened.
He followed her into a back room, with a low, sloping ceiling. It was wretchedly furnished, or rather bare of furniture,—a bed which was a mere heap of foul rags, a shaky little wooden table, a rickety chair, a rusty iron kettle, and a cracked tea-cup and saucer were the only means and appliances of comfort or necessity there.