"Well, that'll show you the sort of man I am. So now I make you a fair offer. You come longer me, and be my little 'un, and I'll be your daddy, and a better dad, I lay, nor if I'd been born so. What do you say, matey?" The man's manner was so kind and hearty, the whole adventure was so wonderful and new.... "Is it country where you going?" said Dickie, looking at the green hedge. "All the way, pretty near," said the man. "We'll tramp it, taking it easy, all round the coast, where gents go for their outings. They've always got a bit to spare then. I lay you'll get some color in them cheeks o' yours. They're like putty now. Come, now. What you say? Is it a bargain?" [Illustration: "HE LAY FACE DOWNWARD ON THE ROAD AND TURNED UP HIS BOOT" [_Page 25_] "It's very kind of you," said Dickie, "but what call you got to do it? It'll cost a lot--my victuals, I mean. What call you got to do it?" The man scratched his head and hesitated. Then he looked up at the sky and then down at the road--they were resting on a heap of stones. At last he said, "You're a sharp lad, you are--bloomin' sharp. Well, I won't deceive you, matey. I want company. Tramping alone ain't no beano to me. An' as I gets my living by the sweat of charitable ladies an' gents it don't do no harm to 'ave a little nipper alongside. They comes down 'andsomer if there's a nipper. An' I like nippers. Some blokes don't, but I do." Dickie felt that this was true. But--"We'll be beggars, you mean?" he said doubtfully. "Oh, don't call names," said the man; "we'll take the road, and if kind people gives us a helping hand, well, so much the better for all parties, if wot they learned me at Sunday-school's any good. Well, there it is. Take it or leave it." The sun shot long golden beams through the gaps in the hedge. A bird paused in its flight on a branch quite close and clung there swaying. A real live bird. Dickie thought of the kitchen at home, the lamp that smoked, the dirty table, the fender full of ashes and dirty paper, the dry bread that tasted of mice, and the water out of the broken earthenware cup. That would be his breakfast, when he had gone to bed crying after his aunt had slapped him. "I'll come," said he, "and thank you kindly." "Mind you," said the man carefully, "this ain't no kidnapping. I ain't 'ticed you away. You come on your own free wish, eh?" "Oh, yes." "Can you write?" "Yes," said Dickie, "if I got a pen." "I got a pencil--hold on a bit." He took out of his pocket a new envelope, a new sheet of paper, and a new pencil ready sharpened by machinery. It almost looked, Dickie thought, as though he had brought them out for some special purpose. Perhaps he had. "Now," said the man, "you take an' write--make it flat agin the sole of me boot." He lay face downward on the road and turned up his boot, as though boots were the most natural writing-desks in the world.