On leaving Holmcastle, as we have already seen, he took a third class ticket to London; but on reaching Preston Junction, in pursuance of a plan he had already formed, he left the train, and took a fresh ticket to Liverpool. On arriving at that filthy and rowdy city, he crossed the town, and took a small room in a little dirty inn in a small thoroughfare off Water Street, which, however, rejoiced in the imposing title of the “Great Atlantic Hotel.” Having taken his two bags upstairs, Wilfred sat down to consider his prospects and his future course of action. His after-plans he had already to a certain extent determined on; at present the all-engrossing, overmastering desire of his heart was to get away from England as soon as possible. The question was, how to effect it. The poor lad took out and counted his whole stock of money. The amount was small, too small he feared to suffice for the payment of even a steerage passage across the Atlantic, even if he should find a ship about to start at once. It suddenly struck him that he could pawn or sell some of his clothes, and the next moment he had opened his bags, and spread out his slender wardrobe on the bed and floor of the tiny chamber he occupied. A spare suit of clothes and a few flannel shirts were nearly all he would want for his present purpose, and he soon made his selection, packed the rest in a single bag, and was speedily on his way with them to a pawnbroker’s. There was no disgrace in this; but when Wilfred found himself in a small, stuffy compartment in the shop, and confronted by a small, yellow-haired Jew, with inflamed eyes of a waterish blue, and of most villainous aspect, he certainly felt far from comfortable. The salutary rule of “first come, first served” was observed in the establishment of Messrs. Cohen and Hart, and Wilfred had to wait until an old Irish-woman, who bore the appearance of a resuscitated mummy--so wrinkled and puckered was her face--had transacted her business. “What! the same petticoat again, Mrs. Maguire?” said the young Jew; “I wonder you’re not ashamed to bring that old rag again to a respectable establishment like this.” “Faith, thin,” said the old woman, “but it’s a dacent undergarmint intirely, and it’s the wearing of it I’d rather injoy this could weather; but what can an ould body like me do wid an ould husband bed-ridden with the rheumatiz, and me daughter’s family down with the fever? sure ye’ll be givin’ me eighteenpince upon it agen, Mr. Cohen, and good luck to ye.” “Devil a ha’penny will I give more than a shilling, Mrs. Maguire, and that’s more than it would sell for to a rag merchant.” “Och, honey, for the love o’ heaven, give me one-and-three.”