He passed silently and slowly between the rose-filled window and the heap of bananas that adorned the other side of the doorway, turned the corner, threw his arm over his crutch, and legged away for dear life down a sort of covered Arcade; turned its corner and found himself in a wilderness of baskets and carts and vegetables, threaded his way through them, in and out among the baskets, over fallen cabbage-leaves, under horses' noses, found a quiet street, a still quieter archway, pulled out the knife--however his adventure ended he was that knife to the good--and prepared to cut the money out of the belt Mr. Beale had buckled round him. And the belt was not there! Had he dropped it somewhere? Or had he and Markham, in the hurry of that twilight dressing, forgotten to put it on? He did not know. All he knew was that the belt was not on him, and that he was alone in London, without money, and that at Gravesend his father was waiting for him--waiting, waiting. Dickie knew what it meant to wait. He went out into the street, and asked the first good-natured-looking loafer he saw the way to Gravesend. "Way to your grandmother," said the loafer; "don't you come saucing of me." "But which is the way?" said Dickie. The man looked hard at him and then pointed with a grimy thumb over his shoulder. "It's thirty mile if it's a yard," he said. "Got any chink?" "I lost it," said Dickie. "My farver's there awaitin' for me." "Garn!" said the man; "you don't kid me so easy." "I ain't arstin' you for anything except the way," said Dickie. "More you ain't," said the man, hesitated, and pulled his hand out of his pocket. "Ain't kiddin'? Sure? Father at Gravesend? Take your Bible?" "Yuss," said Dickie. "Then you take the first to the right and the first to the left, and you'll get a blue 'bus as'll take you to the 'Elephant.' That's a bit of the way. Then you arst again. And 'ere--this'll pay for the 'bus." He held out coppers. This practical kindness went to Dickie's heart more than all the kisses of the young ladies in the flower-shop. The tears came into his eyes. "Well, you _are_ a pal, and no error," he said. "Do the same for you some day," he added. The lounging man laughed. "I'll hold you to that, matey," he said; "when you're a-ridin' in yer carriage an' pair p'raps you'll take me on ter be yer footman." "When I am, I will," said Dickie, quite seriously. And then they both laughed. The "Elephant and Castle" marks but a very short stage of the weary way between London and Gravesend. When he got out of the tram Dickie asked the way again, this time of a woman who was selling matches in the gutter. She pointed with the blue box she held in her hand. "It's a long way," she said, in a tired voice; "nigh on thirty mile."