But although Jack had plenty of courage and a good deal of strength, he was no match for a street warrior like Bob Snobbins, who turned about promptly, blackened both his opponent's eyes, bled his nose, swelled his lips, and finally knocked him into a pool of dirty water, after which he fled, just as a policeman came on the scene. The constable was a kindly man. He asked Jack a few questions, which, however, the latter was too miserable to answer. "Well, well, my boy," said the constable gently, "you'd as well give up fightin'. It don't pay, you see, in the long run. Besides, you don't seem fit for it. Cut away home now, and get your mother to clean you." This last remark caused Jack to run away fast enough with a bursting heart. All day he wandered about the crowded streets, and no one took any notice of him, save a very few among the thousands, who cast on him a passing glance of pity. But what could these do to help him? Were not the streets swarming with such boys? And in truth Jack Matterby was a very pitiable object, at least according to the report of shop-mirrors, which told him that his face was discoloured and bloody, his coat indescribably dirty and ragged, besides being out of harmony with his trousers, and that his person generally was bedaubed with mud. Hunger at last induced him to overcome his feelings of shame so far that he entered a baker's shop, but he was promptly ordered to be off. Later in the day he entered another shop, the owner of which seemed to be of a better disposition. Changing his shilling, he purchased a penny roll, with which he retired to a dark passage and dined. When night came on he expended another penny and supped, after which he sought for some place of shelter in which to sleep. But wherever he went he found the guardians of the public requiring him to "move on." Several street arabs sought to make his acquaintance, but, with the memory of Bob Snobbins strong upon him, he declined their friendship. At last, wearied out and broken-hearted, he found a quiet corner under an archway, where he sat down and leaned his head against the wall, exclaiming, "I'm lost--lost!" Then he wept quietly, and sought to find temporary relief in slumber. He was indeed lost, and more completely so, in the feeling of lonely isolation, perhaps, than he would have been if lost in the backwoods of America. Yet he was not utterly lost, for the tender Shepherd was on his track. Some such thought seemed to cross his mind; for he suddenly began to pray, and thoughts about the old home in Blackby, and of the Grove family, comforted him a little until he fell asleep on his hard bed.