Not a soul to inquire of, not a shop that I see, not an orange-stall!" "Ha!" cried the other, in a hoarse sepulchral voice, "Ha! there is a pot- boy! Boy! boy! boy! I say. Hold, there! hold! Is this Podden Place, Upper?"
Over the way, stuck under an overhanging window, was an orange-stall; the proprietress stood watching, whilst a crowd of vermin-like children ran forward, delighted at the prospect of seeing a woman beaten. Close by, in shirt-sleeves, the pot-boy flung open the public-house door, partly for the purpose of attracting custom, half with the intention of letting a little air into the bar-room.