Utterly unused to unkindness, except from grandma, Frank restrained his brother, who would have fled, and, taking his hand, walked up to the station-master, and said—
"Please, sir, is not this Liverpool?"
The man stared. All he saw, however, was a dirty little pair of children, who plainly had no right to be on his platform. The baby beauty of dark-eyed Fred, the sweet confiding smile of poor pale Frank had no effect whatever on him.
"Liverpool! Is the boy an idiot? Get out of this at once, or I'll take a stick to you."
As he spoke, a whistle sounded, and, behold! The train was moving on. Frank felt as if his last friend was deserting him. A moment more, and he was driven off the platform, Fred clinging to him in great terror, and the station-master rattling a thick stick against the iron railings that separated the railway from the road.
"Oh, Fwank, what shall we do now?"
"Don't cry, Fred. I'll take care of you, and God loves us just the same as if we were at home with muddie. But I wish I had not left my bag in the van."
A little way from the station they came to a shop, where they bought some bread; a drinking-fountain in the street gave them a drink of water. They consulted each other on the propriety of washing, but Frank thought that people might object. Then a woman came along the pathway, and Frank ventured to address her—
"Please, ma'am, isn't this Liverpool?"
"Liverpool! Did you ever hear the like? Why, child, Liverpool's a long way off. I never saw it in my life. Why do you ask?"