The ladies ascended the steps and took their seats in the vehicle, which was driven rapidly down the Strand.
The poor birds’ nest seller was again disappointed this time. He had hoped to extract a small sum from his female questioner.
“Ah!” he ejaculated, “I’m very unfortunate, that’s what I am, I have been so the whole of this blessed day.”
It was still raining, and he was drenched to the skin. His feet were sore with walking, and every bone in his body ached.
He was sick at heart—felt fairly worn out. It was no use his waiting any longer in the streets—there was no one to buy, and nobody seemed disposed to give him alms.
Hunger was gnawing at his very vitals. He was supremely wretched—more miserable than he ever remembered to have been.
He walked slowly and sadly on towards Trafalgar-square. As he went along he counted the flagstones by way of amusement, if such a term could with propriety be applied to him under the present circumstances.
He arrived at the corner of Parliament-street. He knew that there were several low lodging-houses in the back slums of Westminster. He dreaded, as well he might, having to pass the night surrounded with the very dregs of society.
But there was no help for it. He knew that he must sleep, or try to sleep, or he would faint under his next day’s work.
It is true he might go to the casual ward of the workhouse, but of this he had an instinctive horror. He had never been in one, but he had listened to the vivid descriptions of those who had.