Not in honour do grey hairs go down to the grave in London Town.
On one side the door was a bell handle, on the other side a press button.
"Ring the bell," said the Carter to me.
And just as I ordinarily would at anybody's door, I pulled out the handle and rang a peal.
"Oh! Oh!" they cried in one terrified voice.

"Not so 'ard!" I let go, and they looked reproachfully at me, as though I had imperilled their chance for a bed and three parts of skilly.

Nobody came.

Luckily it was the wrong bell, and I felt better.
"Press the button," I said to the Carpenter.
"No, no, wait a bit," the Carter hurriedly interposed.
From all of which I drew the conclusion that a poorhouse porter, who commonly draws a yearly salary of from seven to nine pounds, is a very finicky and important personage, and cannot be treated too fastidiously by--paupers.
So we waited, ten times a decent interval, when the Carter stealthily advanced a timid forefinger to the button, and gave it the faintest, shortest possible push.

I have looked at waiting men where life or death was in the issue; but anxious suspense showed less plainly on their faces than it showed on the faces of these two men as they waited on the coming of the porter.
He came.