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"I dunna see much sign o' the love anywheres," said the man in reply.

"P'r'aps so," said Joe. "But yer see, mates, as how sin an' the devil have comed in th' world, an' they's made terrible mischief, terrible, and many o' us 'as bin 'elping the devil all we could, an' so between us we's got oursels into a queer scrape, an' piled misery an' sorrow o' top o' our 'eads. But God loved us so much that He sent the Saviour to take away our sin an' make us free. An' yet all the time we complain as if our Father made all the mischief an' trouble, when most o' us 'as a-made it oursels."

"Ay, that's true, lad," said Dick Somerset, the man that had spoken most.

"Course it are true," said Joe, brightening up. "An', besides, it may be a good thing for us to be kep' poor an' 'ave plenty o' 'ard work. The Lord knows best, you may depend on 't, what's best for us; lots of us couldn't stand riches, 't would be the greatest curse we could 'ave. I b'lieve if you place some people on a hoss they'd ride to the devil, but if you were to keep 'em in clogs they'd plod on all the way to Paradise."

"It's 'nation 'ard, though," said several of the men, "to be allers a-grindin' away at it as we's bound to do."

"Ay, lads," said Joe, "that are true, an' yet I reckon we ain't a-tried very much to better our position. Some o' yer 'as spent in drink what yer might a-saved, an' if yer 'ad a-done so, an' 'ad spent yer evenin's improvin' yer mind an' gettin' some larnin', ye might ha' been better off. I might, I see it now quite clear; but as I said at the fust, we's 'ad hold o' life by the wrong end. An' I wants us all to begin afresh."

"But how is we to do it, Joe?" said several voices.

"Well, let's begin by axin' the Lord for pardon for all the past, an' for strength to do better for the future."

And Joe got down upon his knees at once and began to pray, and while he pleaded the promises, it seemed to him as if the little room became full of the presence of the Most High. All his hesitancy of speech vanished. It seemed to him as if he had got hold of the very hand of God, and he cried out, "I will not let Thee go until Thou bless me." Promise after promise crowded into his mind with more rapidity than he could utter them; until at length, overcome by his feelings, he cried out, "I canna doubt, I canna doubt no more!" then he hid his face in his hands, and there was silence throughout the room. When he rose from his knees his face fairly shone with joy, and the men looked wonderingly at him and at each other.

Just then there was a knock at the little kitchen door, and Joe's wife came in to say that she was waiting to bring in the tea.

"Right thee are, lass," said Joe. "I'd nearly forgotten the tea; bring it away as fast as thee likes."

And Mary Wrag and a neighbour's wife who had come in to help began to bring in large plates of cake and bread and butter, which the men greedily devoured. It was very evident that whatever they thought of the other part of the service, they enjoyed this part of it.

Joe was more pleased than he could tell at his experiment, and from that day every Sunday afternoon his house was thrown open to any of his neighbours who might like to come in, and hear the Bible read, and have a little conversation about spiritual things.

It was wonderful, now that the tongue of this silent man had been unloosed, how freely he could talk, and he never lacked a congregation. The neighbours flocked to hear him talk of Jesus and of His wondrous love, and in Joe's little kitchen many a weary and heavy-laden soul found peace and rest.

In a little Bethel near his home Joe found a place to worship God. He loved now to be in the house of prayer. It no longer gave him pain to talk of heaven and of the joys of the redeemed for he knew that heaven was open to him, and that in a little while he would find again the little angel that led him into the light, and look upon the Saviour whom he loved.

CHAPTER XVII.
Perks again

 
I knew, I knew it could not last;
'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 'tis past
Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour
I've seen my fondest hopes decay.
I never nursed a tree or flower,
But 't was the first to fade away;
I never nursed a dear gazelle
To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well.
And love me, it was sure to die.
 

– Moore.

On the Monday morning Benny was brought before the magistrates, charged with stealing five pounds from his master's office. He was almost ready to faint when placed in the dock; but, conscious of his own innocence, he gathered up his courage, and answered fearlessly the questions that were addressed to him.

Inspector Sharp gave the particulars of the case, adding that though the money had not been found on the prisoner, or indeed anywhere else, yet he had no doubt that the lad had accomplices to whom he had given the missing property.

Benny denied most emphatically that he had seen the money: he admitted that appearances were against him. "But, oh," he said, looking at the presiding magistrate, his eyes swimming with tears, "I'm not a thief, sir, if you'll on'y believe it; I'm not, really."

Benny's honest face and simple straightforward answers evidently made in his favour; but as Mr. Lawrence had not appeared against him, he was remanded until the following day, so he was removed once more to his cell.

Perks's case was not tried that day, so once more Benny had him for a companion.

During most of the evening Perks sat in one corner, with his face in his hands, and his elbows on his knees, without either speaking or moving. Benny took the opposite corner, glad for once that he had a chance of being quiet. He wondered what would be done to him, whether he would be sent to prison or set at liberty. He felt that he did not care much what happened, for to be penned up in prison, he thought, could not be much worse than to go back in disgrace to the old life of selling matches in the street.

Above the grated window the little patch of blue began to fade as the day waned and darkened into night. Then a solitary star appeared, and looked down with kindly eye into the dreary cell. Benny watched the star twinkling so far above him, and wondered what it could be. Was it one of God's eyes, or the eye of one of His angels? Could it be his Nelly that was looking at him? Or were the stars only holes in the floor of heaven to let the glory through?

He could not tell, but somehow that kindly star looking in upon him seemed to comfort his heart; and he felt that though the world buffeted him, and would not give him a chance of getting on, yet he was not forgotten of God.

Then his thoughts turned to Perks. Was God watching him also? for the star was not visible from the corner where he crouched. Why was he so quiet? Was he sorry for what he had done, or was he ill?

Benny was glad to be quiet; and yet somehow as the darkness deepened he felt lonesome, and wondered what had come to the silent figure in the corner. It was so unusual for Perks to be quiet so long. He listened for a moment, but all was still. And still the minutes dragged away, and the silence became oppressive.

"Perks!" said Benny, unable longer to keep quiet; and his voice awoke the sleeping echoes of the cell, and made it sound hollow as a tomb.

But the echoes were his only answer.

"Perks!" in a louder voice.

Still there was silence, and Benny began to get frightened. Was he dead? he wondered. How awful it would be to be in that cell all night alone with a dead body!

"Perks, do speak!" in a tone of agony.

And he listened for an answer, while the perspiration stood in great drops upon his forehead. But still only silence. He could hear the thumping of his own heart distinctly, and he became hot and cold by turns with fright.

At length he thought he heard a noise coming from the corner where he felt sure Perks was crouched dead. It sounded like suppressed laughter. What could it mean? He dared not move from his corner. Was it Satan come to carry away Perks? for he was very wicked, he knew.

It had got too dark now to see anything distinctly; but there was a shuffling noise on the floor. Horrors! it was coming across the cell towards him. What was it? He could see some unshapely thing moving. Now it was drawing itself up to its full height. Benny nearly shrieked out in an agony of terror. Then it flashed across his mind in a moment – Perks was playing him another of his tricks.

Waiting until Perks was near enough, he dealt him a blow straight from the shoulder that sent him sprawling to the other end of the cell.

"Oh, lor a massy!" he shouted, "if that ain't a stinger!"

"Serves you right," said Benny.

"Lor, but didn't I give you a scarin', just! I never did injoy a thing as much in my life; but, oh, lor! I nearly busted once or twice wi' larfin'."

"I think I gived you a scarin' too," retorted Benny.

"Well, I confess it comed raather sudden like; so that's one to you, Ben. I'll give you yer due."

"I've a good mind to pound you to a jelly," said Benny. "Yer always on with yer tricks."

"Well, I didn't 'tend to scare yer, Ben, for I wur bissy medertatin' on a little plan I 'as in my yed; but when yer spoke 'Perks!' anxious like, the idear comed to me all in a moment. Oh, lor, weren't it a spree!"

"I don't see no fun in it," said Benny.

"Oh, lor, yer don't?" and Perks laughed again. "But I say, Ben, I wants yer 'elp in carryin' out as purty a bit o' play as ever you seen."

"Is it what you've been thinking about all the evenin'?"

"Ay, lad, it's the most butifullest idear that wur ever 'atched in this 'ere noddle; an' if you'll only 'elp me, my stars! our fortin's made."

"You're up to no good again, I'll be bound," said Benny.

"Well, I reckon you'll alter your mind on that score when yer 'ears the details o' my plan," said Perks, coming closer to Benny's side.

"Well, what is it?"

"I must whisper it," said Perks, "though I dunna thinks any bobbies is around listenin' at this time o' night, but it's allers best to be on the safe side."

"I don't want to 'ear it," said Benny, "if it's some'at you must whisper. It's no good, that I'm sartin of."

"Don't be a ninny, Ben. Just listen."

And Perks confided to Ben a plan of getting into the house of an old man who kept a little shop, and lived all alone, and who kept all his money locked up in a little cupboard in the room behind the shop.

"How do you know he keeps his money there?" said Benny.

"Never you mind," was the answer; "I does know it to a sartinty."

"Where does the old man live?"

"No. 86 – Street."

"What's his name?"

"Jerry Starcher. Ain't yer 'eard o' 'im?"

"Ay," said Benny.

"Then you'll 'elp?" said Perks, eagerly.

"Ay," said Benny, "but not in the way you thinks."

"What does yer mean?"

"I mean, if I git out of this place, I'll put the old man on his guard."

"What, an' split on me?"

"No, I'll not mention names."

"Then I 'opes ye'll be sent to a 'formatory an' kep' there for the next five year."

"Do you? Why?"

"'Cause yer a fool, Ben Bates."

"How so?"

"'Cause ye are, I say."

"Well, your saying so don't make it so, anyhow," retorted Benny:

"Don't it, though? But look 'ere: ye're 'ere for stealin', and I can tell yer from 'sperience, that a gent as takes up the perfession is worse nor a fool to give it up agin 'cause he 'appens to get nabbed."

"But I'm not here for stealin'," said Benny, colouring.

"Ye're not, eh?" said Perks, laughing till the tears ran down his face. "Well, that are the richest bit I's heard for the last month."

"But," said Benny, with flashing eyes, "though I'm here charged with stealing, I tell yer I'm honest."

"Are that a fact now, Ben?" said Perks, looking serious.

"It is," replied Benny; "I never took the money."

"Well, so much the worse," said Perks.

"How's that?"

"Cause yer might as well be a thief, hout an' hout, as be charged wi' bein' one. I tell 'e there's no chance for yer; the bobbies'll 'ave their eyes on yer wherever yer be; and if yer gits a sitivation they'll come along an' say to yer guv'nor, 'Yon's a jail-bird, yer'd better 'ave yer eye on 'im;' then ye'll 'ave to walk it somewheres else, an' it'll be the same everywheres."

"How do you know that?" said Benny.

"'Cause I's 'sperienced it," was the reply. "I's older 'n you, though you's biggest; but I reckons as I knows most, an' it's true what I say. Why, bless yer, the first time I ever nabbed I got a month, an' I wor so horful frightened, that I vowed if ever I got out I'd be honest, an' never get in no more; but, bless yer, it wur no go. The bobbies told each other who I wur, an' they was always a-watching me. I got a sitivation once, a honcommon good 'un too; but, oh, lor, the next day a bobby says to the guv'nor, says he, 'Yon's a jail-bird, you'd better keep yer eye on 'im;' an' you may guess I'd to walk in quick sticks. I made two or three tries arter, but it wur no go. As soon as hever a bobbie came near I'd to be off like greased lightnin', an' you'll find out what I say. If yer not a thief now, ye'll 'ave to come to it. I tell yer there's no help for it."

"But I tell you I'll not come to it," said Benny, stoutly.

"But I knows better," persisted Perks; "there ken be no possible chance for yer. Ye're down, an' the world'll keep 'e down, though yer try ever so."

Benny looked thoughtful, for he had a suspicion that a good deal that Perks said was true. He was down, and he feared there was very little, if any, chance of his getting up again. He had proved by experience that the world was hard upon poor lads, and he knew it would be doubly hard upon him now that his character was gone. Yet he felt that he could not become a thief. He would sooner die, and he told Perks so.

But Perks only laughed at the idea.

"You'll find that dyin' ain't so precious easy, my lad," he said in a patronizing tone of voice. And Benny felt that very likely Perks' words were true in relation to that matter, and so he was silent.

"You'd better come partner 'long wi' me," said Perks, in a tone of voice that was intended to be encouraging.

"No," said Benny. "I'll help you if you'll try to be honest; for look here, Perks: there's another life besides this, an' if we're not good we shall go to the bad place when we die, for only good people can go to heaven. An' I want to go to the good place, for little Nell is there; an' I want to see her again, for she was all I had to love in the world, an' oh! it 'ud grieve her so if I were to be a thief, an' grieve the good Lord who died for us all. No, Perks, little Nell begged me afore she died to be good, an' she said the Lord 'ud provide, an' I means to be good. Won't you try to be good too, Perks? I'm sure it 'ud be better."

"No," said Perks: "folks 'as druv' me to what I is. I tried to be honest once, an' they wouldn't let me, an' so I intends to stick to the perfession now, for I likes it; an' ye'll come to it yet."

"I'd rather die," said Benny solemnly.

"Humbug!" snarled Perks. "But I'll say this afore I go to sleep, for I's gettin' des'pert sleepy, if ye'll join me in the perfession I'll be a frien' to yer, an' put yer up to all the tricks, an' forgive yer for that hidin' yer give me. But if," and he brought out the words slowly, "ye'll 'sist on bein' a fool, I'll pay off old scores yet, an' I'll plague yer worse nor ever I's done yet; so I give yer fair warnin'. Now for the land o' nod."

Neither of them spoke again after that, and soon after they were both locked in the arms of kindly sleep.

The following morning Benny was again brought before the magistrates, but nothing new was brought forward in evidence. Mr. Lawrence, however, stated that he did not wish to prosecute, or in any way punish the lad. And as there was no positive evidence that Benny had taken the money, he was dismissed. It was evident, however, that the general belief was that he was guilty; but as the evidence was only presumptive, and this being his first appearance before them, he was given the benefit of the doubt, and set at liberty, with a caution that if he came before them again he would not get off so easily.

His week's wages that Mr. Lawrence had paid him was restored to him on leaving the court, and once more he found himself a homeless orphan on the streets of Liverpool.

Perks did not fare so well. He was an old and evidently a hardened offender. The case was also proved against him, and he was sentenced to be kept in prison for three calendar months. Perks heard the sentence unmoved. He liked liberty best, it is true, but the only thing that grieved him was that it was summer-time. If it had been winter, he would not have cared a straw; but as it was he was determined to make the best of it, and get as much enjoyment out of it as he possibly could.

So Perks and Benny drifted apart, and Benny wondered if they would ever meet again. Life before him lay dark and cheerless. He seemed to have drifted away from everything: no friend was left to him in all the world. There were granny and Joe, but he could not see them, for he felt that if a shade of suspicion crept into their manner, it would break his heart. No, he would keep away. Then there was Mr. Lawrence; he could expect nothing further from him. He believed him to be a thief, of that there could be no doubt, and so doubtless did Morgan and all the other clerks. And then there was little Eva, the angel that had brightened his life for six brief months, and whose bright shilling nothing could induce him to part with. Did she believe him guilty too? Of course she did. His guilt must seem so clear to every one of them. And so he was alone in the world, without a friend to help, unless God would help him; but of that he did not feel quite sure. Sometimes he thought that the Lord would surely provide, but at other times he doubted.

He was at liberty, it was true, and ought he not to be thankful for that? he asked himself; but alas! his innocence had not been established. Young as he was, he felt the force of that. And he felt it terribly hard that all – all! even his little angel – believed him to be a thief.

Ah! he did not know how sore was Eva Lawrence's little heart, and how she persisted to her father that Benny was innocent, and pleaded with him, but pleaded in vain, for him to take back the poor boy and give him another chance.

And night after night she cried herself to sleep, as she thought of the little orphan sent adrift on life's treacherous ocean, and wondered what the end would be. And when one day she tried to sing "Love at Home," the words almost choked her, for the pleading, suffering face of the homeless child came up before her, and looked at her with hungry wistful eyes, as if asking for sympathy and help.

But children soon forget their griefs, and as the days wore away and lengthened into weeks, Benny was almost forgotten, till one day a circumstance occurred which made him again the talk of the Lawrence household. What that circumstance was shall be told in its proper place in the unfolding of this story of Benny's life.

CHAPTER XVIII.
Adrift

 
A fathomless sea is rolling
O'er the wreck of the bravest bark;
And my pain-muffled heart is tolling
Its dumb peal down in the dark.
 
 
The waves of a mighty sorrow
Have 'whelmed the pearl of my life;
And there cometh to me no morrow,
To solace this desolate strife.
 
 
Gone are the last faint flashes,
Set is the sun of my years;
And over a few poor ashes
I sit in my darkness and tears.
 

– Gerald Massey.

Had any of our readers been passing the front of St. George's Hall during the afternoon of the day on which Benny was acquitted, they might have seen our hero sitting on one of the many steps, with his face buried in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees. Hour after hour he sat unmolested, for Perks was no longer at liberty to tease him, and the police did not notice him.

Benny was utterly unconscious of the flight of time, for he was trying to decide upon some course of action by which he could honestly earn his daily bread. He felt that he was beginning life again, and beginning it under tremendous disadvantages. He knew that there was a great deal of truth in what Perks had said to him. All who knew him would mistrust him, and even should he succeed in getting employment under those who did not know him, they might soon get to know, and then he would be dismissed. He was getting too big to be a match boy. He did not understand blacking shoes, and yet to remain idle meant starvation.

"I'm wuss nor a chap buried," he said to himself, thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets and staring around him. "I've heerd of chaps beginnin' at the bottom, but lor a massy! I'm beginnin' furder down than that by a long chalk. I'm six feet under ground, an' I'll 'ave to bore a hole up inter the daylight, or die, I 'specks."

As the afternoon wore away he became conscious of a feeling of hunger. Fortunately, he had sufficient money to keep him from starving for a day or two. He counted over the coins very carefully, and laid aside eighteenpence as being due to granny, and which he resolved should be paid.

"I'll begin honest," he said to himself, "an' I'll keep on at it too, or go to heaven to little Nell."

So after purchasing two sheets of paper and two envelopes, he made his way to a small eating-house and ordered some bread and cheese. He was not long in devouring his very simple meal, and then with a lead pencil commenced his first attempt at letter-writing. The first letter contained only a few words of warning to Jerry Starcher. The second letter was longer, and was addressed to granny. This letter cost Benny a tremendous effort, for, fearing that granny would not be able to read writing, he had, to use his own words, "to print it," and he found it to be a rather slow process. The letter was to the following effect: —

"Deer Grany, – I ken never come 'ome no more. You's heerd what's took plaas, but I nevver stole the money. I is 'onest, for shure I dunno wat I'll do or whair I'll go; but I meen to be 'onest or die. I wish I wur ded. I is very, very, very 'bliged for ole you's don for me an' littel Nel: tel Joe I is 'bliged to 'im to. P'r'aps I'll never see 'e no more, p'r'aps I'll go to littel Nel soon. I 'ope I may, I's very lon-ly. I put with this the money I ow's. Good nite. – Benny."

More than one scalding tear fell upon the letter while he wrote, for the tears would come despite his efforts to keep them back. Life seemed to him such an utter desolation, and hope had almost died out of his heart.

When he had carefully folded and sealed the letters, he went out again on the steps in the shadow of the great Hall, and waited for the darkness. All around him the people hurried to and fro. But had he been in the heart of Africa he could not have felt more utterly forsaken and alone.

When at length the darkness crept over the busy town, he hurried away to Tempest Court, passing Jerry Starcher's, and pushing the letter under his door on the way. His heart beat very fast when he reached granny's door. He was strongly tempted to knock for admittance, for something told him that granny would not turn him away, but he struggled against the feeling. Welcome as would have been his little bed under the stairs, and glad as he would have been for a hiding-place from the world's scorn, yet he felt he would rather not see granny and Joe again while this stain darkened his name.

Within the cottage silence and darkness reigned, for granny had retired early to rest – not without a prayer, though, that the boy she was learning to love might see the error of his ways, truly repent of his sin, and lead a new life. For Joe had told her what had befallen Benny, and furthermore had extracted from her the promise that if he should ever seek again the shelter of her home, for his little sister's sake and for the sake of the Saviour, she would not turn him away, but would help him to begin a better life.

Benny listened for awhile at the key-hole, then cautiously pushing the letter under the door, he hurried away into the darkness. He had no idea where he would spend the night, nor did he concern himself about the direction he was taking; he only felt that he must go somewhere. So on he went in a northerly direction, passing street after street, till, footsore and weary, he stumbled into a dark corner where he thought nobody would notice him, and soon fell fast asleep.

Why could not the policeman who passed a few minutes later, and spied the little crouching figure, have permitted the child to sleep on? He was doing no harm, and the policeman might have known that had the boy a home to go to he would not have been found sleeping in the street.

I suppose he thought nothing about the matter, for he seized Benny by the collar and lifted him off the ground, and after shaking him as a terrier might shake a rat, he ordered him to move on, giving emphasis to his words by a cruel kick, which made Benny grind his teeth with pain, and hurry limping down the street.

He had not gone far before a clock near him began to strike slowly the hour of midnight. At the first stroke of the bell Benny started, and looked carefully around him. Clang went the second stroke.

"It must be the same," he muttered to himself.

The third stroke made him certain.

He was near Addler's Hall without knowing it. The tone of the church clock was as familiar to him as the voice of his father. Scores of times during the years of his childhood he had listened to that clang, waking up the midnight silence when all the others were asleep.

"I wonder if father's comed home yet?" he said to himself; "I'll go and see, anyhow."

Bowker's Row was as silent as the grave, and, as usual, wrapped in darkness. But the darkness was no difficulty to Benny, as he made his way cautiously up the dingy street and into the dingier court that was once his home. It seemed very strange to him that he should be there alone in the silent night, and that Nelly should be alone in her little grave miles away from where he stood.

What a lot had been crowded into his lonely life since last he stood in Addler's Hall, holding his little sister by the hand! And he wondered if ever Nelly left her beautiful home in the sky to pay a visit to the dreary haunts of her childhood.

Before him the door of his old home stood open – the night was not so dark but he could see that – and he could see also that the place wore even a more forsaken appearance than in former days.

Pausing for a moment on the threshold, he plunged into the darkness, then stood still in the middle of the room and listened; but no sound of breathing or noise of any kind broke the oppressive stillness.

He soon discovered also that the house was destitute of furniture; a few shavings under the stairs alone remained.

"The bobbies'll not find me 'ere, I reckon," he said to himself, "though Nelly may."

And he stretched himself on the shavings in the corner where he and his little sister used to sleep in the days that had gone for ever.

It seemed so strange to be there again, and to be there in sorrow and disgrace; and once or twice he stretched out his hand in the darkness as if expecting to find his little sister by his side. Then, as the memory of his loss and the loneliness of his life crept over him, he gave vent to his feelings in a flood of tears. By-and-bye he grew calm, and soon after fell asleep; and in happy dreams, in which he wandered with Nelly through Eastham Woods, he forgot all his trouble and care.

When he awoke the next morning the court was alive and stirring, and Bowker's Row was crowded with ill-fed, ragged, and dirty children: some were doing their best to climb the lamp-posts, some were practising cart-wheel revolutions, some were squatted idly on the pavement, and others were playing with the refuse in the street.

On Benny making his appearance, he was greeted with a shout and a howl that made the street echo again, and summoned the elders to the doorways to see what had happened.

It was very evident that the older children had recognized him, while many a familiar face appeared at door and window. This Benny thought was very unfortunate, for he was in no mood to be questioned or to brook delay. So he darted down the street as if on a race for life, knocking over several of the older lads who tried to check his progress.

For some distance he was followed by a whole tribe of noisy urchins, who shouted at the top of their voices. But Benny was too fleet-footed for them, and soon Bowker's Row and its noisy denizens were left far behind.

Benny's first thought now was to secure a substantial breakfast, which was by no means a difficult matter. That done, he made his way toward the docks, in the hope that he might get employment of some kind. But to a little friendless lad, without character or recommendation, employment was not so easily obtained. Most of those whom he addressed did not condescend to notice his question in any way. A few asked him what he could do, and when he replied "Anything," the invariable answer was, "That means nothing," and he was sent about his business. In fact, there seemed to be no work in the whole line of docks that a child of his age was capable of doing. And night found him worn out with fatigue, and with a sadly lightened pocket.

However, he kept up his heart as well as he could, and sought rest and sleep in a damp cellar upon some dirty straw, which for the payment of twopence he shared with a dozen other lads, who appeared to be as friendless as himself. That night he slept the sleep of the innocent and weary, and awoke next morning, strengthened and refreshed, to find that all his companions had left and that his pockets were empty!

This was a terrible blow to Benny; but when he discovered that his "lucky shilling" was still safe in the lining of his waistcoat, he dried his tears, and went bravely out, hungry as he was, to battle with an unfriendly world.

Before sunset, however, he had nearly lost heart, for he had been unable to earn a single penny, and he was almost faint with hunger. So in sheer desperation he sought his old place on the landing-stage, in the hope that he might have the chance of carrying some one's portmanteau, and in that way earn his supper; but everyone to whom he offered his services repulsed him, and for the first time he wondered whether it would be wrong to throw himself into the river, and whether that would not be the easiest way out of his trouble. Somehow he could not help thinking that it would be less wicked for him to do that than to steal. He could not starve; drowning he was sure would be a much less painful death; and, as far as he could see, it had really come to this, that he must either steal or die. But he would not steal, he had made up his mind to that. Had he not promised Nelly that he would be honest? And had not Joe and granny and his Sunday-school teacher told him what a wicked thing it was to be a thief? No; he had settled that matter, and when he had settled a thing in his own mind he was not to be moved. The question then was, what was the easiest kind of death? The river looked beautiful this summer evening, and he thought it must be very nice to rest beneath its cool sparkling waters after the hot glare of the streets. Should he plunge in now, or should he wait a little longer? He had been without food for twenty-four hours. He had no place to sleep, no means of getting supper.