men. So she showed no pity for them, only for me, who deserved it least or not at all. Not in honor do gray hairs go down to the grave in London Town.
On one side the door was a bell handle, on the other side a press button.
"Ring the bell," said the Carter to me.
And just as I ordinarily would at anybody's door, I pulled out the handle and rang a peal.
"Oh! Oh!" they cried in one terrified voice. "Not so 'ard!"
I let go, and they looked reproachfully at me, as though I had imperilled their chance for a bed and three parts of skilly. Nobody came. Luckily, it was the wrong bell, and I felt better.
"Press the button," I said to the Carpenter.
"No, no, wait a bit," the Carter hurriedly interposed.
From all of which I drew the conclusion that a poorhouse porter, who commonly draws a yearly salary of from thirty to forty dollars, is a very finicky and important personage, and cannot be treated too fastidiously by—paupers.
So we waited, ten times a decent interval, when the Carter stealthily advanced a timid forefinger to the button, and gave it the faintest, shortest possible push. I have looked at waiting men where life and death was in the issue; but anxious suspense
