Day after day Frank went out in search of work. In his tramps he visited scores of workshops and factories, but without success. Either they did not want boys, or they declined altogether to take one who had no experience in work, and had no references in the neighborhood. Frank took his breakfast and tea with the porter, and was glad that the latter had his dinner at the station, as a penny loaf served his purposes. One day in his walks Frank entered Covent Garden and stood looking on at the bustle and flow of business, for it happened to be market day. He leaned against one of the columns of the piazza, eating the bread he had just bought. Presently a sharp faced lad, a year or two younger than himself, came up to him. “Give us a hit,” he said, “I ain't tasted nothing today.” Frank broke the bread in half and gave a portion to him. “What a lot there is going on here!” Frank said. “Law!” the boy answered, “that ain't nothing to what it is of a morning. That's the time, 'special on the mornings of the flower market. It's hard lines if a chap can't pick up a tanner or even a bob then.” “How?” Frank asked eagerly. “Why, by holding horses, helping to carry out plants, and such like. You seems a green 'un, you do. Up from the country, eh? Don't seem like one of our sort.” “Yes,” Frank said, “I'm just up from the country. I thought it would be easy to get a place in London, but I don't find it so.” “A place!” the boy repeated scornfully. “I should like any one to see me in a place. It's better a hundred times to be your own master.” “Even if you do want a piece of bread sometimes?” Frank put in. “Yes,” the boy said. “When it ain't market day and ye haven't saved enough to buy a few papers or boxes of matches it does come hard. In winter the times is bad, but in summer we gets on fairish, and there ain't nothing to grumble about. Are you out of work yourself?” “Yes,” Frank answered, “I'm on the lookout for a job.” “You'd have a chance here in the morning,” said the boy, looking at him. “You look decent, and might get a job unloading. They won't have us at no price, if they can help it.” “I will come and try anyhow,” Frank said. That evening Frank told his friend, the porter, that he thought of going out early next morning to try and pick up odd jobs at Covent Garden. “Don't you think of it,” the porter said. “There's nothing worse for a lad than taking to odd jobs. It gets him into bad ways and bad company. Don't you hurry. I have spoken to lots of my mates, and they're all on the lookout for you. We on the platform can't do much. It ain't in our line, you see; but in the goods department, where they are constant with vans and wagons and such like, they are likely enough to hear of something before long.”