very kind of you," said Dickie, "but what call you got to do it?
It'll cost a lot--my victuals, I mean. What call you got to do it?"

The man scratched his head and hesitated. Then he looked up at the sky
and then down at the road--they were resting on a heap of stones.

At last he said, "You're a sharp lad, you are--bloomin' sharp. Well, I
won't deceive you, matey. I want company. Tramping alone ain't no beano
to me. An' as I gets my living by the sweat of charitable ladies an'
gents it don't do no harm to 'ave a little nipper alongside. They comes
down 'andsomer if there's a nipper. An' I like nippers. Some blokes
don't, but I do."

Dickie felt that this was true. But--"We'll be beggars, you mean?" he
said doubtfully.

"Oh, don't call names," said the man; "we'll take the road, and if kind
people gives us a helping hand, well, so much the better for all
parties, if wot they learned me at Sunday-school's any good. Well, there
it is. Take it or leave it."

The sun shot long golden beams through the gaps in the hedge. A bird
paused in its flight on a branch quite close and clung there swaying. A
real live bird. Dickie thought of the kitchen at home, the lamp that
smoked, the dirty table, the fender full of ashes and dirty paper, the
dry bread that tasted of mice, and the water out of the broken
earthenware cup. That would be his breakfast, when he had gone to bed
crying after his aunt had slapped him.

"I'll come," said he, "and thank you kindly."

"Mind you," said the man carefully, "this ain't no kidnapping. I ain't
'ticed you away. You come on your own free wish, eh?"

"Oh, yes."

"Can you write?"

"Yes," said Dickie, "if I got a pen."

"I got a pencil--hold on a bit." He took out of his pocket a new
envelope, a new sheet of paper, and a new pencil ready sharpened by
machinery. It almost looked, Dickie thought, as though he had brought
them out for some special purpose. Perhaps he had.

"Now," said the man, "you take an' write--make it flat agin the sole of
me boot." He lay face downward on the road and turned up his boot, as
though boots were the most natural writing-desks in the world.

"Now write what I say: 'Mr. Beale. Dear Sir. Will you please take me on
tramp with you? I 'ave no father nor yet mother to be uneasy' (Can you
spell 'uneasy'? That's right--you _are_ a scholar!), 'an' I asks you let
me come alonger you.' (Got that? All right, I'll stop a bit till you
catch up. Then you say) 'If you ta