Somehow Liverpool seemed very distasteful to me. My weary wanderings around the docks, and the continual unsuccess I had met with in looking for a ship, had made me feel as if I might possibly do better in my own big village, and I realised that I now possessed the means of getting back to it again. So the next morning I bade farewell to Mrs Dickey, my landlady, who was quite unmoved at the parting, for she was very angry with me for getting the sack, as she termed it, and toddled off to Lime Street, where I had no difficulty whatever in getting a half ticket to London, nor felt troubled because after paying for it I had only 1s. 7½d. left out of my precious half-sovereign. I must not omit to mention that Mrs Dickey gave me a big hunk of bread and cheese when I told her that I was going to London, but she did not give me a kiss, which I should have prized far more, for I was an affectionate little chap, and was starving for love. But, poor woman, she was heavily burdened, and no doubt was heartily glad to get rid of me, although I cannot think that she had ever been out of pocket by me, for I certainly earned my keep. Still she did not want me, so there is no more to be said. It was a glorious spring day, and the novelty of my first long train journey made me forget all my troubles. Moreover, I felt full of importance to think that I was a passenger by that great train. Every inch of that journey was full of interest to me. I had a seat by the window, and my eyes fairly ached with the intensity of my gaze out over the beautiful country of which, until then, I had seen practically nothing. I remember that I spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me, though several of my fellow-passengers must have wondered who or what was the ill-clad urchin who sat so quietly and gazed so intently at the flying landscape. I was quite sorry when the train arrived at Euston, and I had to march out into the mean net-work of streets which surround the badly situated station, for now I began to wonder what I should do in the vast city which was my birth-place, but in which I had no friends or abiding-corner. It was all so familiar, and yet so inhospitable. Had I only known where to look, there were many places where I could have found shelter and help, but for lack of that useful knowledge, how many wanderers like myself have died? One thing I felt certain of, which was that I could not now take my place among the ranks of my former companions, I could not compete with them for sale of papers, or the numerous odd jobs that boys can do. For one thing I had never been much of a pusher--I was always more ready to stand aside than to press forward in the race for a job, though willing enough to take one if I got the chance--and for another, I had lost the sense of familiarity with those conditions of life ashore, while the new experience I had gained was here of no use to me.