For a person of his refined tastes it was in a shockingly low neighbourhood near one of the docks, and Blue Street itself was one of the shadiest--metaphorically--of its streets.
It consisted mainly of slop shops, patronised by the shipping interest, and displaying wares of which one half at least might be safely counted upon as stolen property.

Number Three, which for some unexplained reason was located half-way down the street, was an establishment of this sort, very offensive to the nose and not at all agreeable to the eye.

Old clothes of every fashion and antiquity hung exposed in the dingy window, while within a still larger assortment lay piled up on the counter.

Nor were the clothes all.

Second-hand watches, marlinspikes, compasses, spoons, books, boxes, and curiosities crowded the narrow space, in the midst of which the shrivelled old lady who called herself proprietress was scarcely visible.
"Come in--don't be afraid," cried she, as the captain paused doubtfully at the door.
"Is this Number 3, my good woman ?" "Look over the door--'aint you got no eyes ?" "Number 3, Blue Street--this is Blue Street, is it not ?" "If yer doubts it, go and read the name at the end of the street.