"When I came to myself and saw where I was, I turned into Spruce Street, and walked toward Oak."
"For Heaven's sake, George," exclaimed Stricket, impatiently, "where are you driving to? Do get to Sylvan Avenue some time this morning."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Seth," replied the young man, with a grave smile; "but I am getting to the meat of my story, and to my excuse, pretty fast now."
"Let's have it then."
"Do you remember what used to be, and what is still called by some, the Turn Hall, on Spruce Street?"
"I do, very well," said Stricket. "The property belongs to old Mother Ernst, and she keeps a saloon—a fearfully low place—in the basement."
"You're right in one particular, Seth; it's low enough, in all conscience—clean under ground."
"I've heard of the woman," said Old Spicer. "She lives and sleeps in that low basement; in fact, it is said, she hardly ever shows herself above ground nowadays."
"That's true," affirmed Stricket; "she's seventy-two or -three years old, and she's lived in that damp basement so long, she's got the rheumatism the worst way, so that she can hardly waddle—has to use a cane."
"Well," continued George, "a milk-wagon was standing in front of the house, and just as I arrived abreast of the place, the milkman, Julius Smith, of East Haven, came rushing up the outside basement steps, his face as white as a sheet, his eyes bulging from their sockets, and his hair, so far as I could see it, fairly standing on end.