he wandered about the crowded streets, and no one took
any notice of him, save a very few among the thousands, who cast on him
a passing glance of pity. But what could these do to help him? Were
not the streets swarming with such boys?

And in truth Jack Matterby was a very pitiable object, at least
according to the report of shop-mirrors, which told him that his face
was discoloured and bloody, his coat indescribably dirty and ragged,
besides being out of harmony with his trousers, and that his person
generally was bedaubed with mud. Hunger at last induced him to overcome
his feelings of shame so far that he entered a baker's shop, but he was
promptly ordered to be off. Later in the day he entered another shop,
the owner of which seemed to be of a better disposition. Changing his
shilling, he purchased a penny roll, with which he retired to a dark
passage and dined.

When night came on he expended another penny and supped, after which he
sought for some place of shelter in which to sleep. But wherever he
went he found the guardians of the public requiring him to "move on."
Several street arabs sought to make his acquaintance, but, with the
memory of Bob Snobbins strong upon him, he declined their friendship.
At last, wearied out and broken-hearted, he found a quiet corner under
an archway, where he sat down and leaned his head against the wall,
exclaiming, "I'm lost--lost!" Then he wept quietly, and sought to find
temporary relief in slumber.

He was indeed lost, and more completely so, in the feeling of lonely
isolation, perhaps, than he would have been if lost in the backwoods of
America. Yet he was not utterly lost, for the tender Shepherd was on
his track. Some such thought seemed to cross his mind; for he suddenly
began to pray, and thoughts about the old home in Blackby, and of the
Grove family, comforted him a little until he fell asleep on his hard
bed.

But, for the time being, the poor boy _was_ lost--lost in London! His
disreputable face and discreditable coat argued a dissipated character--
hence no one would employ him. Ere long necessity compelled him to
accept the society of street arabs, and soon he became quite as sharp,
though not quite as wicked, as they. But day by day he sank lower and
lower, and evil at which he would have shuddered at first became at last
familiar.

He did not sink without a struggle, however, and he would have returned
to the place where his mother had died, t