There was one, however, in the public thoroughfare who had no comfortable home, no family, and but few friends. This was a wretched-looking boy. He was standing opposite the Charing-cross railway station, not very far from the entrance to the Lowther Arcade. The arcade itself was, as is usually the case in wet weather, crowded with loiterers, who looked at the tempting articles on the stalls, but did not purchase. They had, in fact, only sought shelter till the rain gave over. Ever and anon an individual would emerge from the precincts of the arcade and hail a passing omnibus, which was of course full inside. The Metropolitan Railway had not at this time extended as far as Charing-cross, and the omnibuses had it pretty much their own way. The boy, who was so heedless of the falling rain, had long fair hair, which fell down upon his shoulders in clustering curls; his features were well moulded, and denoted a superior organisation to what one expects to see on those of the London street Arabs, who, as a rule, are common and coarse enough――indeed, they might have been esteemed handsome had they been fuller and less dejected. His eyes were clear and grey, and were now fixed upon the pavement or upon what he was holding in his hands. His attire was by no means becoming――he had on a dirty smock frock, which fell below his knees, as if to hide the corduroy trousers which hung down in rags, which were splashed and encrusted with mud. He held in his hands a large basket filled with birds’ nests and thin speckled eggs. The boy was Alf Purvis, who had run away from Stoke Ferry Farm, and had been brought to London by the Whitechapel bird-catcher. Alf’s experience of London life up to the present time had been anything but satisfactory. His patron, the birdcatcher, during the period he remained with him, had been kind enough, but it happened, unfortunately for poor Alf, that the honest and industrious snarer of feathered songsters had a wife――and such a wife! She was a termagant of the worst description. In addition to her many other accomplishments she drank, and led her husband such a life that penal servitude was luxury in comparison to it. The birdcatcher caught a severe cold, and fell sick; he sought refuge in the hospital. After his departure the wrath of his better-half fell upon the ill-fated Alf, who, in self-defence, was constrained to give the shrew as good as she sent. The consequence was that he was turned out of the house, which he was told never to enter again. Before this climax had arrived he had been scratched and beaten most unmercifully by his mistress. In fact, he had been a source of incessant wrangling before the birdcatcher sought refuge in the hospital. He had to shift for himself, and strove to earn a living by selling birds’ nests and eggs in the street.