It was a wretched little shop, with a roof that any man standing in it could touch with his hand; little better than a cellar or cave, down three steps. Yet in its ill-lighted window, among a flaring handkerchief or two, an old peacoat or so, a few valueless watches and compasses, a jar of tobacco and two crossed pipes, a bottle of walnut ketchup, and some horrible sweets⁠—these creature discomforts serving as a blind to the main business of the Leaving Shop⁠—was displayed the inscription Seaman’s Boardinghouse .

Taking notice of Pleasant Riderhood at the door, the man crossed so quickly that she was still winding herself up, when he stood close before her.

“Is your father at home?” said he.

“I think he is,” returned Pleasant, dropping her arms; “come in.”