s-light, and
to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow gold. His next is to give
it a one-sided bite at the edge, as a test of its quality. His next, to
put it in his mouth for safety, and to sweep the step and passage with
great care. His job done, he sets off for Tom-all-Alone's, stopping in the
light of innumerable gas-lamps to produce the piece of gold, and give it
another one-sided bite as a reassurance of its being genuine; and then
shuffles off, back to his crossing; little dreaming--poor Jo!--that
because of his presence at the inquest, and because of this interview, the
rest of his existence is to be even more wretched than his past has been.
He little dreams that persons great and powerful in the outer world were
connected with the secret of his friend's life and death; but it is even
so, and those who fear to have anything brought to light concerning him,
hire officers to hunt Jo away from Tom-all-Alone's,--the only home he has
ever known,--to keep him as far out of reach as possible, because he knew
more about the stranger than any one else. He does not understand it at
all, but from that minute there seems always to be an officer in sight
telling him to "move on."

At a summons to his shop one day, Mr. Snagsby, the law-stationer (in whose
employ the dead man was, and who has always been kind to Jo when chance
has thrown him in his way), descends to find a police constable holding a
ragged boy by the arm. "Why, bless my heart," says Mr. Snagsby, "what's
the matter?"

"This boy," says the constable, calmly, "although he's repeatedly told to,
won't move on."

"I'm always a-moving on, sir," cries the boy, wiping away his grimy tears
with his arm. "Where can I possibly move to more nor I do?"

"Don't you come none of that, or I shall make blessed short work of you,"
says the constable, giving him a passionless shake. "My instructions are
that you are to move on."

"But where?" cries the boy.

"Well, really, constable, you know," says Mr. Snagsby, "really that _does_
seem a question. Where, you know?"

"My instructions don't go to that," replies the constable. "My
instructions are that this boy is to move on, and the sooner you're five
miles away the better for all parties."

Jo shuffles away from the spot where he has been standing, picking bits of
fur from his cap and putting them in his mouth; but before he goes Mr.
Snagsby loads him with some broken meats from the table, which he carries
away h