That is why we are now reporting Friday Street. We
shall call it, in the rough sketch drawn for to-morrow's press, 'Street
in which the criminal resided'; and you will find Mrs. Dowey's home
therein marked with a X.
Her abode really consists of one room, but she maintains that there are
two; so, rather than argue, let us say that there are two. The other one
has no window, and she could not swish her old skirts in it without
knocking something over; its grandest display is of tin pans and
crockery on top of a dresser which has a lid to it; you have but to whip
off the utensils and raise the lid, and, behold, a bath with hot and
cold. Mrs. Dowey is very proud of this possession, and when she shows it
off, as she does perhaps too frequently, she first signs to you with
closed fist (funny old thing that she is) to approach softly. She then
tiptoes to the dresser and pops off the lid, as if to take the bath
unawares. Then she sucks her lips, and is modest if you have the grace
to do the exclamations.
In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter too
briefly.
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