He had but little
money when he got in, none at all when he got out. The pickpockets had
stripped him of his last farthing.
But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he did not go
at his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange
his campaign.
What would the boy naturally do? Where would he naturally go?
Well- argued Miles- he would naturally go to his former haunts, for
that is the instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken,
as well as of sound ones. Whereabouts were his former haunts? His
rags, taken together with the low villain who seemed to know him and
who even claimed to be his father, indicated that his home was in
one or other of the poorest and meanest districts of London. Would the
search for him be difficult, or long? No, it was likely to be easy and
brief. He would not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in
the center of a big crowd or a little one, sooner or later he should
find his poor little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be
entertaining itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who
would be proclaiming himself king, as usual. Then Miles Hendon would
cripple some of those people, and carry off his little ward, and
comfort and cheer him with loving words, and the two would never be
separated any more.
So Miles started on his quest. Hour after hour he tramped
through back alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds,
and finding no end of them, but never any sign of the boy.
Pages:
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237