Street, off Tottenham Court Road. Of course the police did not
make the discovery; if you happen to be sitting up all night and
have a light in your window, the constable will ring the bell,
but if you happen to be lying dead in somebody's area, you will
be left alone. In this instance, as in many others, the alarm
was raised by some kind of vagabond; I don't mean a common
tramp, or a public-house loafer, but a gentleman, whose business
or pleasure, or both, made him a spectator of the London streets
at five o'clock in the morning. This individual was, as he
said, 'going home,' it did not appear whence or whither, and had
occasion to pass through Paul Street between four and five a.m.
Something or other caught his eye at Number 20; he said,
absurdly enough, that the house had the most unpleasant
physiognomy he had ever observed, but, at any rate, he glanced
down the area and was a good deal astonished to see a man lying
on the stones, his limbs all huddled together, and his face
turned up. Our gentleman thought his face looked peculiarly
ghastly, and so set off at a run in search of the nearest
policeman. The constable was at first inclined to treat the
matter lightly, suspecting common drunkenness; however, he came,
and after looking at the man's face, changed his tone, quickly
enough. The early bird, who had picked up this fine worm, was
sent off for a doctor, and the policeman rang and knocked at the
door till a slatternly servant girl came down looking more than
half asleep. The constable pointed out the contents of the area
to the maid, who screamed loudly enough to wake up the street,
but she knew nothing of the man; had never seen him at the
house, and so forth. Meanwhile, the original discoverer had
come back with a medical man, and the next thing was to get into
the area. The gate was open, so the whole quartet stumped down