Opening this, they entered a vile hole where it could scarcely be
said to be daylight, so thickly was the little window patched with
filth. Groping about in the stifling atmosphere, they discovered in
one corner a mass of indescribable matter, from which arose,
seemingly, the worst of the effluvia.
"What is it?" asked Mr. Woodstock, holding a lighted match.
"Rotten fish, it seems to me," said the other, holding his nose.
Abraham turned away; then, as if his eye had suddenly caught
something, strode to another corner. There lay the body of a dead
child, all but naked, upon a piece of sacking.
"We'd better get out of this, sir," said the builder. "We shall be
poisoned. Wonder they haven't the plague here."
"Seems to me they have," returned Mr. Woodstock.
They went out into the street, and hailed the first policeman in
sight. Then, giving up his investigations for that morning, Mr.
Woodstock repaired to the police-station, and after a good deal of
trouble, succeeded in getting the attendance of a medical man, with
the result that the woman they had seen up in the garret was found
to be in truth dying of small-pox. If the contagion spread, as
probably it had by this time begun to, there would be a pleasant
state of things in Litany Lane.
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