The next apartment, smaller yet, and blacker and bluer, and more slippery and slimy, is an uncovered cesspool, from which a sickening stench exales continually.  All about it are chambers—­very small ones,—­state-rooms let me call them, opening upon narrow galleries that run in various directions, sometimes bridging one another in a marvelous and exceedingly ingenious economy of space.  The majority of these state-rooms are just long enough to lie down in, and just broad enough to allow a narrow door to swing inward between two single beds, with two sleepers in each bed.  The doors are closed and bolted; there is often no window, and always no ventilation.

Our “special,” by the authority vested in him, tries one door and demands admittance.  There is no response from within.  A group of coolies, who live in the vicinity and have followed close upon our heels even since our descent into the under world, assure us in soothing tones that the place is vacant.  We are suspicious and persist in our investigation; still no response.  The door is then forced by the “special,” and behold four of the “seven sleepers” packed into this air-tight compartment, and insensible even to the hearty greeting we offer them!

The air is absolutely overpowering.  We hasten from the spot, but are arrested in our flight by the “special,” who leads us to the gate of the catacombs, and bids us follow him.  I know not to what extent the earth has been riddled under the Chinese Quarter; probably no man knows save he who has burrowed, like a gopher, from one living grave to another, fleeing from taxation or the detective.  I know that we thread dark passages, so narrow that two of us may not cross tracks, so low that we often crouch at the doorways that intercept pursuit at unexpected intervals.  Here the thief and the assassin seek sanctuary; it is a city of refuge for lost souls.

The numerous gambling houses are so cautiously guarded that only the private police can ferret them out.  Door upon door is shut against you; or some ingenious panel is slid across your path, and you are unconsciously spirited away through other avenues.  The secret signals that gave warning of your approach caused a sudden transformation in the ground-plan of the establishment.

Gambling and opium smoking are here the ruling passions.  A coolie will pawn anything and everything to obtain the means with which to indulge these fascinations.  There are many games played publicly at restaurants and in the retiring rooms of mercantile establishments.  Not only are cards, dice, and dominos common, but sticks, straws, brass rings, etc., are thrown in heaps upon the table, and the fate of the gamester hangs literally upon a breath.