He set out to walk to London. He knew that Richmond was not very far from London, and had a general idea that he had to keep straight on. He had lingered over his meal, taking his time and resting, and watching the other customers enjoying theirs, so that it was about six o'clock when he rose and went. A curious spirit of adventure possessed him still. The bull-dog nature of the boy was roused, and it was with an implicit faith in the future that he went straight on. Until he reached Kew Bridge all was easy sailing; there was a straight road, and he went straight on. But at Kew Bridge he pulled up, puzzled. He had crossed the river at Hampton Court, and again at Kingston, and apparently here was another bridge to cross. It seemed to him that things were getting mixed. Ignorant of the convolutions of the Thames, of its manifold twists and turns, he began to wonder whether he had not after all gone wrong, when he found the river in front of him again. By the bridge lingered two or three of the flower-sellers who haunt the neighbourhood of Kew Gardens. He addressed himself to one of them. "Am I right for London?" "Of course you is, over the bridge, turn to the right, and go straight on. Won't you buy a bookay? Only this one left; ain't sold none all day,--flowers only just fresh,--only sixpence, sir." The man kept up by Bertie's side, supported by one or two of his colleagues, proffering their wares. "I haven't any money." "Don't say that, sir,--I'm a poor chap, sir,--I am indeed, sir,--very 'ard to stand all day and not sell nothing--just this one, sir--you shall have it for fivepence." "I tell you I haven't any money." "Leave the gentleman alone, Bill. Don't you see he's a-going home to his ma?" His colleagues dropped off, firing a parting shot; but the man whom Bertie had originally addressed kept steadily on, sticking close to his side. They crossed the bridge together. The sun was beginning to go home in the west, majestically enthroned in a bank of crimson clouds. The waters were tinted by his departing rays. "Just this one, sir--take pity on a poor chap, now do, sir--you've got a nice home to go to, and a ma and all, and here's me, what hasn't earned a copper all the day, with nothing to eat and drink, and not a bed to lay me 'ead upon--buy this one, sir--you shall have it for fourpence." "I haven't any money." They went down the bridge together, the man still sticking to Bertie's side. "If I was a gentleman, and a poor chap came to me, and asked me to buy a bookay, I wouldn't tell him I'd got no money, and me a hard-working chap what hasn't tasted food for a couple of days, and hasn't seen a bed for a week--just this one, sir--you shall have it for threepence, and that's less than it cost me, it is indeed, sir--won't you have it for threepence?" "I tell you I haven't any money." The man stopped, allowing Bertie to wend his way alone, but his voice still followed after.