The nice distinction between a flat and a tenement is that the front
door of one is always kept closed, and the other open. In this
particular instance the matter admitted of no discussion, for there was
no front door. The one that originally hung under the fan-shaped
Colonial arch had long since been kicked in during some nocturnal raid,
and had never been replaced.
When the gas neglected to get itself lighted before dark at Number One,
you had to feel your way along the hall in complete darkness, until your
foot struck something; then you knew you had reached the stairs and you
began to climb. It was just as well to feel along the damp wall as you
went, for somebody was always leaving things on the steps for people to
stumble over.
Nance groped her way cautiously, resting her bucket every few steps and
taking a lively interest in the sounds and smells that came from behind
the various closed doors she passed. She knew from the angry voices on
the first floor that Mr. Smelts had come home "as usual"; she knew who
was having sauerkraut for supper, and whose bread was burning.
The odor of cooking food reminded her of something. The hall was dark and
the beer can full, so she sat down at the top of the first flight and,
putting her lips to the foaming bucket was about to drink, when the door
behind her opened and a keen-faced young Jew peered out.
"Say, Nance," he whispered curiously, "have they swore out the warrant
on you yet?"
Nance put down the bucket and looked up at him with a fine air of
unconcern.
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