256   *                        PARIS   IN  AMERICA.
On the door-step was a man, his coat unbuttoned and
hands in his pockets, smoking a pipe and gazing at the
passers with all the insolence of an idle vagabond. On
seeing us, he took off his shapeless hat, and, flinging
himself on me, seized both my hands with an affection
which filled me with horror. It was Paddy, half drunk,
smelling of rum and tobacco.
" Good morning, my saviour," said he ; " you are very
good to come to see a friend. Come in, gentlemen ; if
you are not afraid of a glass of gin, you will find some
one to help you drink it."
" Paddy," said I, " does this house belong to you?"
" No, my saviour," answered he, laughing ; " if this
palace had been mine, I should have drunk it up long ago.
It is my wife's—a fine business, isn't it ?"
" Do you let furnished rooms ?" said I, pointing to a
bill.
" At your service, doctor."
" Whom do you lodge in this house ?" asked Humbug,
in a harsh tone.    " Frequenters of my court ?"
" Your honor," said the drunkard, yawning, " we are
not rich enough to be nice ; we take what we can get,
and get virtue when we can."
" Who lives in the apartments on the first floor ?" said
the lawyer, with a cunning air.
" What is that ^o you, chatterbox ?" replied the
drunkard.    " Do you pay for them ?"
" Answer," said Humbug ; " do npt forget that you
are before a magistrate."
" I have nothing to be afraid of," said the Irishman,
excited. " You know, your honor, that none but honest
people would live in apartments at three dollars a week,
paid in advance.   A lady lives on the first floor, a pretty