ung lady was saying, "I am extremely sorry, sir; it was a
misunderstanding."

And to the music of their two voices Dickie edged along close to the
grapes and melons, holding on to the shelf on which they lay so as not
to attract attention by the tap-tapping of his crutch.

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
so