f that?"

"It's a talisman," replied Paul, who, having come across the word in a
book, had at once applied it to his treasure.

"Lor' lumme!" cried Barney Bill. "And it was for that bit of stuff yer
ran the risk of being flayed alive by yer loving parents?"

Paul was quick to detect a note of admiration underlying the
superficial contemptuousness of the words. "I'd ha' gone through fire
and water for it," he declared theatrically.

"Lor' lumme!" said Barney Bill again.

"I got summat else," said Paul, taking from his pocket his little pack
of Sunday-school cards.

Barney Bill examined them gravely. "I think you'd better do away with
these."

"Why?"

"They establishes yer identity," said Barney Bill.

"What's that?"

Barney Bill explained. Paul was running away from home. The police,
informed of the fact, would raise a hue-and-cry. The cards, if found,
would be evidence. Paul laughed. The constabulary was not popular in
Budge Street.

"Mother ain't going to ha' nowt to do with the police, nor father,
either."

He hinted that the cards might be useful later. His childish vanity
loved the trivial encomiums inscribed thereon. They would impress
beholders who had not the same reasons for preoccupation as Barney Bill.

"You're thinking of your 'igh-born parents," said Barney Bill. "All
right, keep 'em. Only hide 'ern away safe. And now get in and let us
clear out of this place. It smelts like a cheese with an escape of gas
running through it. And you'd better stay inside and not show your face
all day long. I don't want to be had up for kidnapping."

Paul jumped in. Barney Bill clambered onto the footboard and took the
reins. The old horse started and the van jolted its way to the road, on
which as yet no tramcars clattered. As the van turned, Paul, craning
his neck out of the window, obtained the last glimpse of Bludston. He
had no regrets. As far as such a thought could be formulated in his
young mind, he wished that the place could be blotted out from his
memory, as it was now hidden forever from his vision. He stood at the
little window, facing south, gazing toward the unknown region at the
end of which lay London, city of dreams. He was not quite fourteen. His
destiny was before him, and to the fulfilment thereof he saw no
hindrance. No more would the remorseless factory hook catch him from
his sleep and swing him into the relentless machine. Never again, would
he hear his mother's shrewish voice or fe