"'St! 'st! Don't make such a rumpus, or No. 7 will be at you."

"What do I care for No. 7? And who the devil is No. 7?"

"A body-snatcher!" whispered Beck, with a shudder. "He's a dillicut
sleeper,--can't abide having his night's rest sp'ilt. And he's the
houtrageoustest great cretur when he's h-up in his tantrums; it makes
your 'air stand on ind to 'ear him!"

"I should like very much to hear him, then," said the stranger,
curiously. And while he spoke, the door of No. 7 opened abruptly. A
huge head, covered with matted hair, was thrust for a moment through the
aperture, and two dull eyes, that seemed covered with a film like that of
the birds which feed on the dead, met the stranger's bold, sparkling
orbs.

"Hell and fury!" bawled out the voice of this ogre, like a clap of near
thunder, "if you two keep tramp, tramp, there close at my door, I'll make
you meat for the surgeons, b---- you!"

"Stop a moment, my civil friend," said the stranger, advancing; "just
stand where you are: I should like to make a sketch of your head."

That head protruded farther from the door, and with it an enormous bulk
of chest and shoulder. But the adventurous visitor was not to be
daunted. He took out, very coolly, a pencil and the back of a letter,
and began his sketch.

The body-snatcher stared at him an instant in mute astonishment; but that