and looked
abroad. It was a cold night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther
from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and
the sombre shadows looked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still.
He softly reclosed the door, and having availed himself of the expiring
light of the candle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of
wearing apparel he had, sat himself down to wait for morning.

With the first ray of light, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door.
One timid look around,--one minute's pause of hesitation,--he had closed
it behind him.

He looked to the right, and to the left, uncertain whither to fly. He
remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the
hill, so he took the same route; and arriving at a footpath which he knew
led out into the road, struck into it, and walked quickly on.

For seven long days he tramped in the direction of London, tasting nothing
but such scraps of meals as he could beg from the occasional cottages by
the roadside. On the seventh morning he limped slowly into the little town
of Barnet, and as he was resting for a few moments on the steps of a
public-house, a boy crossed over, and walking close to him, said,

"Hullo! my covey! What's the row?"

The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his
own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had ever seen.
He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a
juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and
manners of a man. He was short, with bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly,
eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head, and he wore a man's coat
that reached nearly to his heels.

"Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" said this strange young gentleman to
Oliver.

"I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver; the tears standing in his
eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these
seven days."

"Going to London?" inquired the strange boy.

"Yes."

"Got any lodgings?"

"No."

"Money?"

"No."

The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets.

"Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver.

"Yes, I do when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some
place to sleep in to-night, don't you?"

Upon Oliver answering in the affirmative, the strange boy, whose name was
Jack Dawkins, said, "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a
'