He sat down on a bench, and he sat there all day, except when he went to drink from the tin cup dangling by the chain from the nearest fountain. His good breakfast kept him from being hungry for a while, but he was as aimless and as hopeless as ever, and as destitute. He would have gone home now if he had had the money; he was afraid they would be getting anxious about him there, though he had not made any particular promises about the time of returning. He had dropped a postal card into a box as soon as he reached Boston, to tell of his safe arrival, and they would not expect him to write again. There were only two ways for him to get home: to turn tramp and walk back, or to go to that Mr. Sewell and borrow the money to pay his passage. To walk home would add intolerably to the public shame he must suffer, and the thought of going to Mr. Sewell was, even in the secret which it would remain between him and the minister, a pang so cruel to his pride that he recoiled from it instantly. He said to himself he would stand it one day more; something might happen, and if nothing happened, he should think of it again. In the meantime he thought of other things: of that girl, among the rest, and how she looked at the different times. As nearly as he could make out, she seemed to be a very fashionable girl; at any rate, she was dressed fashionably, and she was nice-looking. He did not know whether she had behaved very sensibly, but he presumed she was some excited. Toward dark, when Lemuel was reconciling himself to another night's sleep in the open air, a policeman sauntered along the mall, and as he drew nearer the boy recognised his friendly captor. He dropped his head, but it was too late. The officer knew him, and stopped before him. “Well,” he said, “hard at it, I see.” Lemuel made no answer, but he was aware of a friendly look in the officer's face, mixed with fatherly severity. “I was in hopes you had started back to Willoughby Pastures before this. You don't want to get into the habit of settin' round on the Common, much. First thing you know you can't quit it. Where you goin' to put up to-night?” “I don't know,” murmured Lemuel. “Got no friends in town you can go to?” “No.” “Well, now, look here! Do you think you could find your way back to the station?” “I guess so,” said Lemuel, looking up at the officer questioningly. “Well, when you get tired of this, you come round, and we'll provide a bed for you. And you get back home to-morrow, quick as you can.” “Thank you,” said Lemuel. He was helpless against the advice and its unjust implication, but he could not say anything. “Get out o' Boston, anyway, wherever you go or don't go,” continued the officer. “It's a bad place.”