him
undress when he wanted to get out of the innumerable manacles
that now confined every joint. He was as helpless as a turtle
that the unkind hand of ruthless man has rolled over on his back.

However, the disguise was complete; he looked in the glass and
thought he was his own landlady; his best friends wouldn't have
known him, and the teller of the bank would have pronounced him a
forgery and refused to certify him; he felt like a full-rigged
clipper ship, and got under sail as soon as possible and bore
down upon Madame Morrow's residence. He nearly capsized as he
stepped into the street, but he righted after a heavy lurch to
the north-east, and kept his course without further serious
disaster. He made a speedy run to Broome street, the voyage being
accomplished in less than the expected time, although a heavy
sea, in the shape of a boy with a wheelbarrow, struck him
amidships, on the corner of Sheriff street, doing some damage to
his lower works and carrying away a yard or so of lace from his
main skirt. He finally came up to the house in splendid style,
and cast anchor on the opposite sidewalk to take an observation.

The anchorage was good, and he rode securely for a short time
until he could repair damages, he having carried away some of his
upper rigging; in other words, he had caught his veil on a
meat-hook and had been unable to rescue it. He rigged a sort of
jury-veil with the end of his shawl, so that he could hide his
blushing countenance in case of too close scrutiny.

Madame Morrow lives, as he now discovered, in a low, three-story
brick house, which cannot be called dirty, simply because that
mild word expresses an approximation towards cleanliness which no
house in this locality has known for years. City readers can get
an idea of its condition by understanding that it is in the worst
part of "The Hook;" to readers in the country, who have luckily
never seen anything filthier than a barn yard, no information can
be given which would meet the case. Sunshine is the only
protection for a well-dressed man against the population of this
part of the town. In the twilight or darkness he would be robbed,
if not garroted and murdered. The boldest and most desperate
burglars, and others of that stamp, have their homes about
here--fathers who teach their children the thief's profession, and
mothers who carry pickpockets at the breast. In the midst of this
nest of crime the fortune-teller has her home, and h