“I am not a lady.  I am a servant.”

“You are a jolly servant!” says Jo without the least idea of saying anything offensive, merely as a tribute of admiration.

“Listen and be silent.  Don’t talk to me, and stand farther from me!  Can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the account I read?  The place he wrote for, the place he died at, the place where you were taken to, and the place where he was buried?  Do you know the place where he was buried?”

Jo answers with a nod, having also nodded as each other place was mentioned.

“Go before me and show me all those dreadful places.  Stop opposite to each, and don’t speak to me unless I speak to you.  Don’t look back.  Do what I want, and I will pay you well.”

Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider their meaning; considers it satisfactory; and nods his ragged head.

“I’m fly,” says Jo.  “But fen larks, you know.  Stow hooking it!”

“What does the horrible creature mean?” exclaims the servant, recoiling from him.

“Stow cutting away, you know!” says Jo.

“I don’t understand you.  Go on before!  I will give you more money than you ever had in your life.”

Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub, takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way, passing deftly with his bare feet over the hard stones and through the mud and mire.

Cook’s Court.  Jo stops.  A pause.

“Who lives here?”

“Him wot give him his writing and give me half a bull,” says Jo in a whisper without looking over his shoulder.

“Go on to the next.”

Krook’s house.  Jo stops again.  A longer pause.

“Who lives here?”

“He lived here,” Jo answers as before.

After a silence he is asked, “In which room?”

“In the back room up there.  You can see the winder from this corner.  Up there!  That’s where I see him stritched out.  This is the public-ouse where I was took to.”

“Go on to the next!”

It is a longer walk to the next, but Jo, relieved of his first suspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him and does not look round.  By many devious ways, reeking with offence of many kinds, they come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted now), and to the iron gate.

“He was put there,” says Jo, holding to the bars and looking in.

“Where?  Oh, what a scene of horror!”

“There!” says Jo, pointing.  “Over yinder.  Among them piles of bones, and close to that there kitchin winder!  They put him wery nigh the top.  They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in.  I could unkiver it for you with my broom if the gate was open.  That’s why they locks it, I s’pose,” giving it a shake.  “It’s always locked.  Look at the rat!” cries Jo, excited.  “Hi!  Look!  There he goes!  Ho!  Into the ground!”