Chapter III

My Lodging And Some Others

>>>>The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand,
>>>>Wedged by the pressing of Trade s hand,
>>>>Against an inward-opening door
>>>>That pressure tightens evermore;
>>>>They sigh a monstrous, foul-air sigh
>>>>For the outside leagues of liberty,
>>>>here art, sweet lark, translates the sky
>>>>Into a heavenly melody.
>>>>-- Sidney Lanier

From an East London standpoint, the room I
rented for six shillings, or a dollar and a half, per
week was a most comfortable affair. From the
American standpoint, on the other hand, it was
rudely furnished, uncomfortable, and small. By
the time I had added an ordinary typewriter table
to its scanty furnishing, I was hard put to turn
around; at the best, I managed to navigate it by
a sort of vermicular progression requiring great
dexterity and presence of mind.

Having settled myself, or my property rather,
I put on my knockabout clothes and went out
for a walk. Lodgings being fresh in my mind, I
began to look them up, bearing in mind the

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