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?"