DICKIE fell asleep between clean, coarse sheets in a hard, narrow bed, for which fourpence had been paid. "Put yer clobber under yer bolster, likewise yer boots," was the last instruction of his new friend and "father." There had been a bath--or something equally cleansing--in a pail near a fire where ragged but agreeable people were cooking herrings, sausages, and other delicacies on little gridirons or pans that they unrolled from the strange bundles that were their luggage. One man who had no gridiron cooked a piece of steak on the kitchen tongs. Dickie thought him very clever. A very fat woman asked Dickie to toast a herring for her on a bit of wood; and when he had done it she gave him two green apples. He laid in bed and heard jolly voices talking and singing in the kitchen below. And he thought how pleasant it was to be a tramp, and what jolly fellows the tramps were; for it seemed that all these nice people were "on the road," and this place where the kitchen was, and the good company and the clean bed for fourpence, was a Tramps' Hotel--one of many that are scattered over the country and called "Common Lodging-Houses." The singing and laughing went on long after he had fallen asleep, and if, later in the evening, there were loud-voiced arguments, or quarrels even, Dickie did not hear them. Next morning, quite early, they took the road. From some mysterious source Mr. Beale had obtained an old double perambulator, which must have been made, Dickie thought, for very fat twins, it was so broad and roomy. Artfully piled on the front part was all the furniture needed by travellers who mean to sleep every night at the Inn of the Silver Moon. (That is the inn where they have the beds with the green curtains.) "What's all that there?" Dickie asked, pointing to the odd knobbly bundles of all sorts and shapes tied on to the perambulator's front. "All our truck what we'll want on the road," said Beale. "And that pillowy bundle on the seat." "That's our clothes. I've bought you a little jacket to put on o' nights if it's cold or wet. An' when you want a lift--why, here's your carriage, and you can sit up 'ere and ride like the Lord Mayor, and I'll be yer horse; the bundles'll set on yer knee like a fat babby. Tell yer what, mate--looks to me as if I'd took a fancy to you." "I 'ave to you, I know that," said Dickie, settling his crutch firmly and putting his hand into Mr. Beale's. Mr. Beale looked down at the touch. "Swelp me!" he said helplessly. Then, "Does it hurt you--walking?" "Not like it did 'fore I went to the orspittle. They said I'd be able to walk to rights if I wore that there beastly boot. But that 'urts worsen anythink." "Well," said Mr. Beale, "you sing out when you get tired and I'll give yer a ride." "Oh, look," said Dickie--"the flowers!"