The wheels rolled on, and rolled down by the Monument and by the Tower, and by the Docks; down by Ratcliffe, and by Rotherhithe; down by where accumulated scum of humanity seemed to be washed from higher grounds, like so much moral sewage, and to be pausing until its own weight forced it over the bank and sunk it in the river. In and out among vessels that seemed to have got ashore, and houses that seemed to have got afloat⁠—among bowsprits staring into windows, and windows staring into ships⁠—the wheels rolled on, until they stopped at a dark corner, river-washed and otherwise not washed at all, where the boy alighted and opened the door.

“You must walk the rest, sir; it’s not many yards.” He spoke in the singular number, to the express exclusion of Eugene.

“This is a confoundedly out-of-the-way place,” said Mortimer, slipping over the stones and refuse on the shore, as the boy turned the corner sharp.

“Here’s my father’s, sir; where the light is.”