But father--Beale--who had been kind, whom Dickie loved!... The lady left him alone with a book, beautiful beyond his dreams--three great volumes with pictures of things that had happened and been since the days of Hereward himself. The author's charming name was Green, and recalled curtains and nights under the stars. But even those beautiful pictures could not keep Dickie's thoughts from Mr. Beale: "father" by adoption and love. If the police were set to find out "where he was and what he was doing?"... Somehow or other Dickie must get to Gravesend, to that house where there had been a bath, or something like it, in a pail, and where kindly tramp-people had toasted herrings and given apples to little boys who helped. He had helped then. And by all the laws of fair play there ought to be some one now to help him. The beautiful book lay on the table before him, but he no longer saw it. He no longer cared for it. All he cared for was to find a friend who would help him. And he found one. And the friend who helped him was an enemy. The smart, pink-frocked, white-capped, white-aproned maid, who, unseen by Dickie, had brought the bath-water and the bath, came in with a duster. She looked malevolently at Dickie. "Shovin' yourself in," she said rudely. "I ain't," said he. "If she wants to make a fool of a kid, ain't I got clever brothers and sisters?" inquired the maid, her chin in the air. "Nobody says you ain't, and nobody ain't makin' a fool of me," said Dickie. "Ho no. Course they ain't," the maid rejoined. "People comes 'ere without e'er a shirt to their backs and makes fools of their betters. That's the way it is, ain't it? Ain't she arst you to stay and be 'er little boy?" "Yes," said Dickie. "Ah, I thought she 'ad," said the maid triumphantly; "and you'll stay. But if I'm expected to call you Master Whatever-your-silly-name-is, I gives a month's warning, so I tell you straight." "I don't want to stay," said Dickie--"at least----" "Oh, tell me another," said the girl impatiently, and left him, without having made the slightest use of the duster. Dickie was taken for a drive in a little carriage drawn by a cream-colored pony with a long tail--a perfect dream of a pony, and the lady allowed him to hold the reins. But even amid this delight he remembered to ask whether she had put the police on to father yet, and was relieved to hear that she had not. It was Markham who was told to wash Dickie's hands when the drive was over, and Markham was the enemy with the clever brothers and sisters. "Wash 'em yourself," she said among the soap and silver and marble and sponges. "It ain't my work." "You'd better," said Dickie, "or the lady'll know the difference. It ain't my work neither, and I ain't so used to washing as what you are, and that's the truth." So she washed him, not very gently. "It's no use your getting your knife into me," he said as the towel was plied. "I didn't _arst_ to come 'ere, did I?" "No, you little thief!"