om the man who rented him the room.
Then he took the roll of paper marked with the name of the day from the
drawer of his bureau and counted out the pennies into his pocket. They
were not many; he had to live on seven shillings a week, and he tucked
them away very carefully in a pocket lest he lose them and have to do
without his lunch.

He was not yet due at the blacking-factory, but he hurried away from his
room and joined the crowd of early morning people already on their way
to work. He went down the embankment along the Thames until he came to a
place where a bench was set in a corner of a wall. This was his favorite
lounging-place; London Bridge was just beyond, the river lay in front of
him, and he was far enough away from people to be safe from
interruption.

As he sat there watching the Bridge and the Thames a little girl came to
join him. She was no bigger than he, perhaps a year or two older, but
her face was already shrewd enough for that of a grown-up woman. She was
the maid-of-all-work at a house in the neighborhood, and she had fallen
into the habit of stopping to talk for a few moments with the boy on her
way to work in the morning. She liked to listen to his stories.

This was the boy's hour for inventing his tales; he could spin wonderful
tales about London Bridge, the Tower, and the wharves along the river.
Sometimes he made up stories about the people who passed in front of
them, and they were such astonishing stories that the girl remembered
them all day as she worked in the house. He seemed to believe them
himself; his eyes would grow far away and dreamy and his words would run
on and on until a neighboring clock brought him suddenly back to his own
position.

"You do know a heap o' things, don't you?" said the little girl, lost in
admiration. "I'd rather have a shillin' though than all the fairy tales
in the world."

"I wouldn't," said Charles stoutly. "I'd rather read books than do
anythin' else."

"You've got to eat though," objected his companion, "and books won't
make you food. 'Tain't common sense." She relented in an instant. "It's
fun though, Charley Dickens. Good-bye 'til to-morrow."

Charles went on down to the old blacking-factory by Hungerford Stairs, a
ramshackle building almost hanging over the river, damp and overrun with
rats. His place was in a recess of the counting-room on the first floor,
and as he covered the bottles with the oil-paper tops and tied them on
with string