the reach of marauding hands, possibly) with two large white loaves
on it, and a great piece of Cheshire cheese.

'Well!' says Mr. Superintendent, with a comprehensive look all
round. 'How do YOU do?'

'Not much to boast of, sir.' From the curtseying woman of the
house. 'This is my good man, sir.'

'You are not registered as a common Lodging House?'

'No, sir.'

Sharpeye (in the Move-on tone) puts in the pertinent inquiry, 'Then
why ain't you?'

'Ain't got no one here, Mr. Sharpeye,' rejoin the woman and my good
man together, 'but our own family.'

'How many are you in family?'

The woman takes time to count, under pretence of coughing, and
adds, as one scant of breath, 'Seven, sir.'

But she has missed one, so Sharpeye, who knows all about it, says:

'Here's a young man here makes eight, who ain't of your family?'

'No, Mr. Sharpeye, he's a weekly lodger.'