Through the Broadway, along the Hammersmith Road, on, and on, and on. Every step he took made the next seem harder. He was conscious that he could hardly walk much more. The crowd, the lights, the strangeness of the place, confused him. He wondered where he was. Was this London? and was it nothing else but streets? and was this the Land of Golden Dreams?
When he reached the Cedars, where the great pile of school buildings is now standing, he saw, peering through the railings, a little arab of the streets. To him he applied for information.
"Is this London?"
The urchin withdrew his head from between the two iron rails through which he had managed to squeeze it, and eyed his questioner. He was a little lad, smaller than Bertie, hatless, shoeless, in a ragged pair of trousers which were several sizes too large for him, and which were rolled up in a bunch about his ankles to enable him to put his feet far enough through to touch the ground.
"What, this? this 'ere? no, this ain't London."
"How far is it then?"
"How far is it? what, London? It just depends what part of London might you be wanting?"
"Any part; I don't care."
The urchin whistled. His small, keen eyes had been reading his questioner all the time, and Bertie was conscious of a sense of discomfort as he observed the curious gaze. In some odd way he felt that this little lad was bigger and stronger, and older than himself; that he looked down at him, as it were, from a height.
"Say, matey, where might you be going to? You don't look as though you knowed your way about, not much, you don't."
The cool tone of superiority irritated Bertie. Tired and weary as he was, and a little sick at heart, he was not going to allow a little shrimp like this to look down on him.
"If you won't tell me the way, why, that's enough. I don't want any of your cheek."
Bertie moved on, but the other called after him.
"You needn't turn rusty, you needn't; I didn't mean no harm. I'm going to London, I am, and if you like you can come along o' me."
The urchin was by his side again. Bertie looked at him with disgusted eyes. He had not set out upon his journey with the intention of travelling with such tag-rag and bobtail as this lad. So far the society into which he had fallen had been of an unfortunate kind; he had had enough of Sam Slater, and of Sam Slater's sort.
"I'm not going with you; I'm going by myself."
"Alright, matey, every bloke's free to choose his pals."
The urchin turned a series of catherine-wheels right under Bertie's nose. Then, with a whistle of unearthly shrillness, he set off running, and disappeared into the night. Bertie was left no wiser than before.
He dragged along till he reached Addison Road A gentleman in evening dress came across the road, smoking a cigar. He was of middle age, irreproachably attired, with nothing of Sam Slater about him.
"If you please, sir, can you tell me how far it is to London?"
The gentleman stopped short, puffing at his cigar.
"What's that?"
Bertie repeated his inquiry. For answer, the gentleman took him by the shoulder, led him to a neighbouring lamp-post, and looked him in the face.
"What are you doing here? You look respectable; you're from the country, aren't you?"
Bertie hesitated; he remembered the effect produced by his incautious frankness on Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins.
"Speak up; you have got a tongue, haven't you? What are you doing here? run away from home?"
The lad, giving a sudden twist, freed himself from the gentleman's grasp, and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. The stranger, puffing at his cigar as he stood under the lamp-post, laughed as he peered after the retreating boy. But Bertie, despite his weariness, still ran on. He dimly wondered, whether he bore about with him some outward sign by which any one could tell he was a runaway. He made up his mind that he would ask no more questions if he ran the risk of meeting such home thrusts in reply.
He wandered onwards till he reached Kensington Gardens, and then the Albert Hall. There was a concert going on, and the place was all lit up. He stared with amazement at the enormous building, imperfectly revealed in the darkness of the night. Carriages and cabs were going to and fro. Some one touched him on the shoulder. It was a gorgeous footman, with powdered hair, in splendid livery. His magnificence dazzled him.
"I say, you boy, do you know Thurloe Square?"
"No, sir."
"What do you mean? are you gettin' at me? You take a message for me to Thurloe Square, and there'll be a bob when you get there."
"But I don't know Thurloe Square; I'm a stranger, sir."
"A stranger, are you? Then what do you mean by standing there, as though you was born just over the way? Get on out of it! I shouldn't be surprised if you was after pockethandkerchiefs;--what's your little lay? I'll tell the policeman to keep an eye on you, telling me you don't know Thurloe Square;--oh yes, I jest dersay!"
The footman appeared to be angry; Bertie slunk away. He crossed the road to the park; a gate was open; people were going in and out. He entered too. It looked quiet inside; perhaps there was grass to sit upon. He went up towards the Serpentine, and had not gone far when he came to a seat. On this he sat. Never was seat more welcome; it was ecstasy to rest. He was dimly conscious of what was going on; before he knew it he was fast asleep.
Time passed; still he slept. A perfect sleep untroubled by dreams. Some one else approached the seat, some one in the last stage of raggedness, so exhausted that he seemed hardly able to drag one foot behind the other. He, too, sat down; he, too, fell fast asleep.
Some one else approached,--a woman with a baby and a watercress basket. The baby was crying faintly; the woman tried to comfort it, speaking to in a droning monotone:
"I've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "I've nothing to give you, bairn! God help us all!"
A policeman came along. When he reached the seat he stopped, and flashed the bull's-eye lantern in the faces of the sleepers. The woman woke up instantly, perhaps used to such a visitation.
"I'm going, sir; I only sat down for a moment to rest awhile."
The baby began to cry again.
"I've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "I've nothing to give you, bairn! God help us all!"
It seemed to be a stereotyped form of speech. She got up, with the baby and her basket, and walked away, the baby crying as she went. The policeman remained behind, flashing his bull's-eye.
"Now then, this won't do, you know; wake up, you two."
He took the ragged sleeper by the shoulder, and shook him; he seemed to wake in a kind of stupor, and staggered off without a word. The policeman turned to Bertie.
"Now then!"
The lad woke with a start; he thought some one was playing tricks with him.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to clear out of this, that's what I want."
Opening his eyes Bertie was for a moment dazzled by the glaring light; then he saw at the back the policeman's form, looming grim and awful. Possessed by a sudden fear, he sprang to his feet, and ran as for his life.
"Now I wonder what you've been up to?" murmured the policeman. "I don't remember seeing your face before; I should say you was a new hand, you was."
Bertie ran, without knowing where he was running to; across the road, under a rail. He found himself upon the grass. It was quite dark, mysterious, strange. He could hardly be followed there, so he thought at least, and strolled more slowly on. But he was very tired still, and, yielding to his weariness, when he had gone a little farther, he sat down upon the grass to rest.
And this was the Land of Golden Dreams! this was his entrance into the promised land! A gentle breeze murmured through the night; there was a sound as of rippling grass and of rustling leaves; he could see no stars; a heavy dew was falling; the grass was damp; it was chilly; the breeze blew cold; he shivered with hunger and with cold. His head was nodding on his breast; almost unconsciously he lay full length upon the sodden grass, and again fell fast asleep.
But this time it was not a dreamless slumber; it was a continued nightmare. He was oppressed with horrid visions, with continuous strugglings against hideous forms of terror. Unrefreshed he woke. It was broad day; but there had come a sudden change of weather, the skies were overcast and dull. His limbs were aching; he was stiff, and wet, and cold; he was soaked to the skin; his clothes stuck to his body. Shivering, he struggled to his feet, rising with pain. The place was deserted. Three was a solitary horseman in the distance; the horseman and the lad were the only living things in sight.
It began to drizzle; the wind had risen; it whistled in the air. The fine weather had departed as though never to return. Bertie's teeth were chattering; he felt dull and stupid, ignorant of what he ought to do.
He began walking through the rain across the grass. How cold he was, and oh! how hungry. He must have something to eat, and something warm to drink. He thought of his money; he felt for his fourpence; it was gone!
The discovery stunned him. He could not realize the fact at once, but searched in each of his pockets laboriously, one after the other. He turned them inside out; felt for holes through which it might have fallen. He remembered that he had put it in the right hand pocket of his trousers; he examined it again and again, in a sort of stupor. In vain; it was gone!
He retraced his steps. It might have fallen out of his pockets in the night; he fell upon his knees and searched. There was no sign of it about. He was without a sou, and he was so hungry and so cold, and it was raining, and he was wet to the skin.
He could not realize his loss. He wandered stupidly on, stopping at times, feeling in his pockets again and again. It could not be gone. But there was no money there. This was his Land of Golden Dreams; this was the object of his journey; this was the result of his dash into the world; he was cold, and he was hungry, and he saw no signs of anything to eat.
At last he left the park behind. He went out by the Piccadilly gate, as miserable a figure as any to be seen, stained with mud, soaked with wet, hungry and forlorn. It was early. The early omnibuses were bringing crowds of business men to town. The drivers were muffled in their mackintoshes, the outside passengers crouched beneath their umbrellas. Everything and every one looked cold, and miserable, and wet; Bertie looked worst of all, for he looked hungry too.
How hungry! There had been moments at Mecklemburg House when hunger had made itself felt, but never hunger such as this. The very worst meal Mr. Fletcher had ever set before his pupils--and his system of dietary was not his strongest point--Bertie would have welcomed as a feast. Even a dry crust of stale bread would have been welcome; a cup of the wishy-washiest tea would have been nectar of the gods.
He was footsore too. As he wandered by the Piccadilly mansions and approached the shops, he became conscious that his feet were blistered. It was a discomfort to be obliged to put them to the ground. His right foot, in particular, had a blister on the heel, and another on the ball of the foot. It seemed to him that every moment these were getting larger. He would have liked to have taken his boot and sock off and examine his injuries. He was aware, too, that he was dirty; more than two days had passed since he had come in contact with soap and water. Once upon a time he had had a vague idea that it was a glorious sport of the heroic character to be dirty; now he would have liked to have had a wash. But he could neither wash nor examine his feet in the middle of Piccadilly.
The presence of the shops caused him an additional pang. The display of costly goods in their windows seemed to add to his misery. Even the possession of his fourpence, as compared to the value of such treasures, would have placed him at a disadvantage.
But without it he was poor indeed. He was fascinated by the fruit shops; all the fruits of the earth, those in season and those out, seemed gathered there. He glued his nose to the window and looked and longed.
"Now then, what are you doing there? move on out of that!"
A policeman, in a shiny cape, from which the wet was dripping, roughly shouldered him on. He was not even allowed to look. This was not at all the sort of thing he had expected. His idea of his entry into the great city had been altogether different. He was to come as the king of boys, if not of men; as something remarkable, as a heaven-born conqueror; something to be talked of; the centre of all eyes directly he was seen. To sleep upon the sodden grass, to be penniless, cold, wet, and hungry, to be shouldered by policemen, to be bidden to move on, these things had not entered into his calculations when that night at Mecklemburg House he had dreamed those golden dreams.
He struggled on; his feet became more painful; he was limping; rest he must. He turned down a bye-street, and then down a friendly entry, and leaned against the wall. Was this what he had come for, to lean in the rain against a wall, and to be thankful for the chance of leaning? He had not read in lives of Robin Hood, and Turpin, and Crusoe, and Jack the Giant-Killer, of episodes like this. But then, perhaps, his acquaintance with the histories of those gentlemen was not so perfect as it might have been.
Suddenly he heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Some one was coming along the side-street as though racing for his life. A lad about his own age came darting round the corner in such terrific haste that he almost ran into Bertie's arms.
"Catch hold! here's a present for you."
The runner gasped out the words, without pausing in his flight. Like an arrow from a bow he darted on, leaving Bertie standing there. To his amazement Bailey found that he had thrust something in his hand; his surprise was intensified when he discovered what it was,--it was a purse. The runner had turned another corner and was already out of sight.
Bertie, in his bewilderment, could do nothing else but gaze. Such unexpected generosity, coming at such a moment, was so astonishing that it was almost as though the gift had fallen from the skies. A good fat purse! It was like the stories after all. He could feel that it was heavy; he almost thought that he could feel that it was full. Suppose it were full of gold! Had it fallen from the skies?
All this occupied an instant. The next he was conscious that some one else was coming up the street; apparently some one else in equal haste; apparently more than one. Cries rang in his ears; he could not quite distinguish the words which were shouted, but at their sound, for some reason, a cold chill went down his back.
Some one came round the corner; some one who seized him as though he were some wild thing.
"Got you, have I! thought you'd double, did you, and slip out when I'd run past? Artful, but it didn't quite do,--not this time, at any rate."
His captor shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. It was a policeman, a huge, bearded fellow, six feet high. Bertie was like a plaything in his hands. On hearing some one coming, the boy, without any thought of what he was doing, had slipped the hand which held the purse behind his back. The policeman was down on it at once.
"What's that you've got there?"
He twisted the boy round, revealing the hand which held the purse. He took it away.
"Oh, that's it, is it? You hadn't got time to throw it away, I suppose, or perhaps you thought it was too good to lose--worth running a little risk for, eh? Well, you've run the risk just once too often."
By this time others had come into the entry, and now Bertie recognised the words which he had heard. What they had been shouting was, "Stop thief!"
The new comers showed a lively interest in the captive. A man, who looked like a respectable mechanic, reckoned him up.
"That's not the boy," he said.
"Oh, isn't it? It doesn't look like it, not when he was hiding here, and holding the purse in his hand!"
The policeman held up the purse with an air of smiling scorn.
"Had he got the purse? Well, whether he had or whether he hadn't, all I can say is he isn't the boy who took it; I'm willing to take my oath to that. He was a different-looking sort of boy altogether, and I was standing as close to him as I am to you."
"I never took the purse," said Bertie, with dogged lips and dogged eyes. He realized that great trouble had come upon him, as he writhed and twisted in the policeman's hand. "It was given to me."
"Yes, I daresay, and by a particular friend, no doubt. You come along with me, my lad, and tell that tale elsewhere."
The policeman began to drag the lad along the entry.
"The boy will go quietly, I daresay, if you give him a chance," observed the man who had previously spoken. "However it may be about the purse being found upon him, I'm prepared to prove that that's not the boy who took it."
"Well, you can come and give your evidence, can't you? It's no good standing arguing here; the lad had got the purse, and I've got the lad, and that's quite enough for me."
"Where are you going to take him to?"
"Marlborough Street Police Court."
"All right, I'll come round and say what I've got to say. My name's William Standing,--I'm a picture framer; I'll go and tell my governor where I'm off to, and I'll be there as soon as you are."
The man walked away. The policeman proceeded to haul Bertie off with him again. The boy was speechless. He was tired, his feet were sore; the policeman's pace was almost more than he could manage. In consequence, every now and then he received a jerk, which all but pitched him forward on his nose.
"Why don't you leave the boy alone?" inquired a man in the little crowd, which walked alongside in a sort of procession, whose ideas of a policeman's duty were apparently vague. "He ain't done no 'arm to you."
"Why, bless yer, if it wasn't for them little 'uns them policemen would have no one to collar; they daren't lay a finger on a man of your build, old pal."
This remark, from another member of the crowd, produced a laugh. The original speaker was a diminutive specimen of his kind, whom the policeman could have carried in his arms with the greatest of ease.
When they regained Piccadilly they came upon the victim of the robbery. This was a portly, middle-aged female, who was a pleasant combination of mackintoshes and agitation. She was the centre of an interested circle, into whose sympathetic ears she was pouring her tale of woe. The arrival of the policeman with his captive created a diversion.
"Is this the boy?" inquired the constable.
"Have you got my purse?" replied the lady. "It contained thirty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings, and threepence, in two ten pound notes, two fives,--I've got the numbers in my purse,--seven pounds in gold, four of them half-sovereigns, fifteen shillings in silver, and a threepenny bit; and whatever I shall do without it I don't know. I'm the landlady of the 'Rising Sun,' and I was going to pay my wine-merchant's bill, and I said to my daughter only this morning, 'Take all that money loose I didn't ought to do. No, Mary Ann, a cheque it ought to be.' But Mary Ann's that flighty, though she's in her thirties, though twenty-two she tries to pass herself to be----"
The policeman endeavoured to stop the lady's flood of eloquence.
"You can tell us all that when we get to the station. You'll have to come with me to identify the purse and charge the boy."
"I don't want to charge the boy, all I want is to identify the purse. As for the young limb of a boy, I'd like to give him a good banging with my unbrella, that I would!"
The lady shook her umbrella at the boy in a way which caused the crowd to laugh. But there was no laughter left in Bertie.
"We can't have any banging here," said the policeman, who was anxious to get on. "If you take my advice, you'll call a cab and let us all go comfortably together."
"Me go in a cab with a policeman and that there limb of a boy; not if I know it! I've kept the 'Rising Sun' respectable these six-and-twenty years,--sixteen years in my husband's time,--as respectable a man as ever breathed, though cherry brandy was his failing,--and ten long years a widow, and go to prison with a policeman and that there limb of a boy in a cab----"
"Nobody's asked you to go to prison," said the policeman, whose patience was beginning to fade. "I can't stand talking here all day. Now then, boy, best foot forward, march!"
Bertie's poor best foot was blistered, so that the policeman had to assist him, with occasional awkward jerks, to march to jail.
There was a meeting in Trafalgar Square that day. Some people thought they had a grievance, and resolved to air it. No matter what the grievance was; the world is very full of them, and too many of them are hard and stern, and old and deep, difficult to be removed. But the authorities had decided that this particular grievance should not be aired in this particular way; they would permit no meeting to be held in Trafalgar Square. The result was, contests with the police. The people with the grievance tried hard to air it; there were ugly rushes, the excitement spread, and in the neighbourhood adjoining there was something very like a riot.
One procession of the people with a grievance making for the Square, had been met by the police and turned aside. Part of the processioners had been turned into Piccadilly, and were being driven along that thoroughfare, helter skelter, just as the procession which escorted Bertie and his captor approached. The policeman saw his danger, and tried to turn aside. It was too late. The fugitives coming tumultuously along, and seeing only a single constable, made a rush in his direction.
In a moment Bertie found himself the centre of a pushing, yelling, struggling crowd, with the policeman holding on to him like grim death. Above the tumult could be distinguished the accents of the landlady of the "Rising Sun."
"I'm the landlady of the 'Rising Sun,' and I've kept the house respectable these six-and-twenty years--ten long years a widow, and sixteen years a respectable married woman--and it's a sin and a shame that a respectable female----"
But the crowd was no respecter of persons; the lady was hustled on one side, where her voice was heard no more. Bertie became conscious that a contest was going on for the possession of himself. The policeman stuck to him with extraordinary tenacity; with equal tenacity the crowd endeavoured to drag him away. Bertie suffered. Without wasting any time in inquiring as to the rights of the case, his new friends did their best to deprive the law of its prey. But they directed their efforts with misguided zeal. If they had left him to his fate, Bertie could only have suffered imprisonment at the worst; now he ran a risk of being drawn and quartered. They apparently did their best to drag his arms and legs out of their sockets; he felt his clothes giving way in all directions. Through all the heat and turmoil he felt that if this was town he preferred the country.
In the unequal strife the constable, unsupported, was vanquished in the end. It was well for Bailey the end came when it did; if he had stuck to his prize much longer the pieces of a boy would have strewed the street. Some one in the crowd struck the constable in the face with a stick. Putting up his hand to ward off a second blow, Bertie was instantly snatched from his grasp. His capture was so unsuspected, that the two zealous friends who were doing their best to tear him limb from limb, recoiling backwards, loosed their hold, and let him fall upon the ground.
"Get up, youngster, and hook it! The peelers will have you again if you don't look sharp; there's a lot of them coming down the street."
A workman stooped over the lad as he lay in the mud and assisted him to rise. He regained his feet, feeling stunned and bewildered. His friendly ally gave him a push, which sent him staggering into the thick of the crowd. It was only just in time to prevent the constable from catching hold of him again. The confusion suddenly became worse confounded.
"The peelers! the peelers!" was the cry.
There was a trampling of hoofs; the crowd parted in all directions, each seeking safety for himself. Half a dozen mounted constables went galloping through.
"Now you cut and run! If you aren't quick about it they'll nail you again as sure as eggs!"
It was the friendly workman urging Bertie to flight. He did not need much urging, but made the best of his way through the crowd, the memory of the policeman's grip still upon him. No one tried to stop him. Every one, including apparently his original captor, was too much engaged in his own affairs. He did not wait to see what became of the landlady of the "Rising Sun," though he seemed to hear her indignant accents above the tumult and the din. As fast as his wearied legs would carry him he tore away.
All that day he had nothing to eat. He saw nothing again of the policeman, nor of the crowd, nor of the lady who had lost her purse with its thirty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings, and a threepenny bit. But he had been in custody; he had signalized his entry into the Land of Golden Dreams by being within an ace of jail; the thought was with him all the day. Every policeman he saw he shrunk away from, and every policeman seemed to follow his shrinking with suspicious eyes. He was in continual expectation of feeling a hand upon his shoulder, and another experience of how it felt to be dragged through the streets.
It never ceased to rain; yet the rain did not come down fast, but always in the same slow, persistent drizzle. It was a cold rain, and the wind, which every now and then became almost tempestuous, was cold. Every one seemed to be in a bad temper; there were sour faces everywhere. The drivers of the various vehicles quarrelled with one another, and cursed and swore. Pedestrians hustled each other into the gutter; each seemed to be persuaded that the other did his best to get into his way.
Bertie had paid three previous visits to London,--this made the fourth. On each of the previous occasions he had been accompanied by his father; this was the first time he had come alone. Many a time that day he wished that he had postponed his personal exploration till a little later on; about the middle of the century after next, he was persuaded, would have been time enough for him.
His first visit had been as one of a family party to see the pantomime. There had been a morning performance; they had left home early in the morning, returning late at night. That day was a red-letter day in Bertie's calendar.
"When I went to see the pantomime," was the words which formed a prelude to many a tale of the wondrous sights which he had seen.
The second time he came up with father alone. The doctor had had some meeting to attend at the hospital at which he had spent his student days, and Bertie bore him company. Afterwards a visit had been paid to Madame Tussaud's and the Zoological Gardens. But the climax of the day had been the dinner at the restaurant in the evening before returning home. Bertie always thought that he had seen life when he looked backwards at that dinner in the after days. Champagne had accompanied that repast, and a band had played.
But the crowning visit had been the third. A certain cousin--feminine--had been a member of the party, and she alone would have canonized the day. They had gone to the exhibition and dined there, and seen the illuminations, and he had told himself that London was a city of delights, a paradise below, fairyland to-day.
This point of view did not occur to him with so much force on this, the occasion of his fourth visit. As he struggled up and down the wet and greasy streets, with his blistered feet and his empty stomach, anything more unlike a city of delights it seemed to him that he had never seen. He was continually getting into everybody's way, always being hustled into the gutter, and once, when an irate elderly gentleman sent him flying backwards to assume a sitting posture in the centre of a heap of mud, everybody laughed. But it was no joke to him. The elderly gentleman was a little sorry when he saw what he had done.
"You oughtn't to get in my way! The police didn't ought to allow boys like you to hang about the streets!"
That was the way he expressed his penitence, and then passed on. Bertie picked himself up at leisure. He was a sorry sight, and when the people saw the spectacle he presented they laughed again.
"If I was you I'd sow seeds in that there mud you've got on you; it'd be as good as 'arf a hacre of ground."
This was the comment of a paper-seller. He resumed his calling, shouting, "Hecho! Fourth hedition! Hecho!" But some one else had a word to say. This was a girl who was selling flowers for button-holes.
"You let me stick these 'ere flowers in that there sile you've just picked up. They'll grow like winkin'!"
All this was hard enough to bear, but the worst was the hunger and thirst. Although it rained all day, his thirst remained unquenched.
Toward evening he found himself in Covent Garden. As he looked shyly round his hopes rose just a little. To begin with, there seemed shelter. If he might only be allowed to stay in this place all night!
On the ground was vegetable refuse, ancient cabbage leaves, odds and ends of garbage which littered the place. If he could only pick up one or two of those cabbage leaves and see how far they would go towards staying his appetite! Surely no one could object to that, since they were placed there only to be thrown away. So he began picking up the cabbage leaves.
"Now then, what are you doing there? None of that now! Clear out of this, or I'll clear you out, and precious quick!"
At the sound of a strident voice Bertie trembled as though he had been guilty of a heinous crime. He dropped the cabbage leaves out of his hands again. A little man, who was apparently some one in authority, had suddenly appeared from behind one of the pillars, and was shouting at Bertie with the full force of his lungs. Like a frightened ewe the hero of yesterday gave a look round and slunk away. He was disappointed of his meal. The ground was evidently holy ground, and the cabbage leaves were evidently sacred cabbage leaves. The disappointment seemed to make his hunger worse. He had scarcely strength enough to slink away. He put his arms around one of the pillars, and, leaning his head against it, cried.
This was what had become of all his golden dreams! Of what stuff are heroes made?
"I say, young one, what's in the wind? Any one trodden on your precious toes? You don't seem so chirpy as some."
Bertie looked up through his tears to see who the speaker was. A little time ago to have been caught crying would have covered him with shame, now all shame of that sort seemed to have gone for ever. He vaguely feared that this was some new Jack-in-office again bidding him move on; but he was wrong.
The speaker was a boy about his own age; but there was something about him which at a very first glance showed that he was different from other boys. He was respectably dressed; the chief peculiarity about his clothing being that it seemed to fit him like his skin. A tighter pair of trousers surely never imprisoned human legs. His waistcoat fitted him without a crease, and it seemed that he had been made for his coat, and not his coat for him. He wore a billycock hat of a particularly knowing pattern, set rakishly upon the side of his head; a stand-up collar made it difficult for him to look anywhere except straight in front of him; and an enormous pin, set in the centre of a gorgeous blue necktie, made his costume quite complete.
Even more remarkable than his costume was his face. It has been said of the famous Lord Chancellor, Lord Thurlow, that no one could be so wise as Lord Thurlow looked; it was almost equally impossible that any one could be so knowing as the expression of his countenance declared this young gentleman to be. It was an unhealthy face, an unpleasant face, with something in it which reminded you of how Methuselah might have appeared in his green old age. It was never still; the eyes seemed to be all over the place at once; it seemed to be continually listening to catch the first sound of something or some one drawing near.
"Down on your luck? What are you piping your eye for? Does that sort of thing suit your constitution? Turn round to the light, and let's have a look what you're like; don't keep hugging that pillar as though it was your ma."
Through all his misery Bertie saw that this young gentleman was centuries older than himself, though they had probably entered the world within the same twelve months. Besides, he was too prostrated to resist, even had he wished, and he allowed the other to drag him into a position in which he might study his features at his leisure.
"I thought so,--directly I caught sight of your back I thought I knew your size. Wasn't you in Sackville Street this morning?"
"In Sackville Street?" repeated Bertie vaguely.
"Yes, in Sackville Street, my bonny boy. Never heard tell of Sackville Street before, I suppose? So I should think by the look of you. Wasn't it you I pitched the old girl's purse to?"
A light was dawning upon Bertie's mind.
"Was it you who stole the purse?"
The other gave a quick look round, as though the question took him by surprise--if anything so self-possessed could be said to be taken by surprise.
"Stow your cackle! Do you want to have me put away? Where do you live when you're at home? You must be a sharp one, though you do look so jolly green! I thought you'd be buckled to a certainty! I never expected to see you walking about as large as life. It gave me quite a start when I saw you hugging that pillar as though you loved it. How did you make tracks?"
Bertie was trying to collect his thoughts. This boy before him was a thief, a miserable hound who tried to escape the consequences of his own misdeeds by putting the odium of his crimes upon the innocent. But Bertie was alone; alone in the great city, hungry, thirsty, tired, wet, and cold. Human companionship was human companionship after all. And this boy looked so much more prosperous than he himself was. Yesterday he would have done great things; to-day he would have welcomed a crust of bread coming even from this thief.
"The policeman wanted to lock me up."
"No! did he though? Funny ones those policemen are! they're always wanting to go locking people up. And did he cop the purse?"
"He took the purse away from me."
"And how come you to be making love to that there pillar, instead of enjoying yourself in a nice warm cell? I suppose you didn't give the policeman one in the nose and knock him down?"
"We met some people in the street, and they made him let me go."
"Did they though? that was kind of them! When policemen was making free with me I wish I was always meeting people in the streets who would make them interfering bobbies let me go. And now, who are you when you're at home? We're having quite a nice little conversation, ain't we, you and I? Glad I met you, quite a treat!" He raised his hat to express his sense of the satisfaction which he felt. "You don't look as though you were raised in these 'ere parts."
Bertie hung his head; he was ashamed: ashamed of many things, but most of all just then of the company he was in. And yet, if he turned this thief adrift, where else should he find a friend? And he was so tired, so hungry, so conscious of his own helplessness.
"You very nearly got me locked up this morning," was his answer.
"Well, my noble marquis, wasn't it better for you to be locked up than me? It'll have to come, you know--if not to-morrow the day after."
To Bertie this view of the matter had not occurred before. It had not entered into his calculations that a journey to the Land of Golden Dreams would necessitate the process of locking-up.
"Are you on the cross, or only mouching around?"
This inquiry was Greek to Bertie, and his questioner perceived that he failed to understand.
"You're a fly bloke, that you are! What's your little game? You haven't got a fortune in your pocket, or a marquis for a pa? What do you do to live? I suppose you ain't reckoning to die just yet awhile."
"I wish I could do something, but I can't."
"Oh, you wish you could do something, do you, but unfortunately you can't! Well, you are a trial for the nerves! Have you got any money?"
Bertie hung his head still lower. To be despised by a thief! Was this the result of all his dreams?
"No!"
"Got any friends?"
"I've run away from them."
And here the boy broke down. Turning, and leaning against a pillar, he burst into a passion of tears. The other eyed him for a few moments, whistling beneath his breath.
"That's the time of day, is it? I thought you were something of that kind from the first, I did. What did you run away for?"
Bertie could not have told him to save his life. To have told this thief that he had started on a journey to the Land of Golden Dreams; that he had resolved to emulate the doings of his heroes, Dick Turpin, Crusoe, Jack the Giant-Killer, and Robin Hood! Oh, ye gods! and now to be crying against a post!
"Father living?"
No answer.
"Mother?"
No answer.
How well he knew that he loved his parents now! The mere mention of the word "mother" made him hysterical with woe. To have come within reach of his mother's loving arms, to have been folded to her breast! If he could only come within reach of her again!
The other stood observing him with critical eyes, whistling all the time.
"You seem to have had a considerable lot of water locked up tight. I should think you would have bust if you hadn't had a chance to let it go. What are you a-howling at? Crying for your mammy?"
For answer Bertie turned with a sudden ferocity and struck at him savagely. But the blow was struck at random, and the other had no difficulty in avoiding it by stepping aside.
"Hollo! don't you come that game again, or I'll show you how to use a bunch of fives."
But Bertie showed no further signs of fight. It had only been an almost childish display of passionate spite at the other's coarse allusion to his "mammy"--the mother whom he was now so sure he loved so well. Even the passion of his tears died away into a whimper. He had not strength enough to continue in a passion long.
"Are you hungry?" asked the other.
"I'm starving!"
"Ah, I've been hungry, and more than once, and it isn't nice. I shouldn't be surprised if you found it rather nasty, especially if you aren't used to it. Now, look here; let's have a look at you."
He went close up to Bertie and looked him straight in the face with his keen, restless eyes. Bertie returned the look as well as he could with his tear-stained orbs.
"You look a game 'un, somehow; and you look grit. I suppose it's feeling peckish you don't like. There's a lot of talk about courage what's always the same, but I don't believe there ever was a chap who kept up his pluck upon an empty belly. I've been hungry more than once. Now, look here; if I take you to a crib I know of, and set you up in vittles and a shake-down, will you keep your mouth shut fast?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, yes, you do; you're not so soft as that. If I act square with you, will you act square with me?"
"I always do act square," said Bertie.
"Very well, then, come along; if you do, then you're the sort for me. I did you a bad turn this morning, now I'll do you a good one to make up."